


Wreaking Havoc

by ignition



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bisexual Male Character, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Denial of Feelings, Explicit Sexual Content, Friendship, Gay Male Character, Hospitalization, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Disability
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-08-06 10:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16386452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignition/pseuds/ignition
Summary: It all starts with Jean being angry, frustrated, with the Colonel's prowess when it comes to dating, and ends with, well, something that Jean really would have never had guessed.





	1. Let's not fall in love

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this before summer and then left it to simmer. Added some 300 words and decided to post, because I put down too much work for this not to see the light of day.
> 
> The thought here is that this takes place/starts early on in the time-line, before too much has happened, and that it's somewhat canon compliant. Unbeta'd. That's it really.

 

 

It’s frustrating more than anything else. Jean really shouldn’t let it get to him, but the mere idea of the Colonel constantly getting to his prospected girlfriends before Jean has the chance to make a move. Yeah, it bothers him. It wouldn’t, if it was only bad luck, because Jean has plenty of that already, but Mustang seems so pleased about it. His smarmy smile, speaking of some deeper satisfaction that Jean really doesn’t want to know about. It gets to him.

He’d call him sadistic if he didn’t know better. Because unfortunately the Colonel is also the perfect gentleman to each and every lady out there, leaving only Jean rubbed wrong and displeased about the situation. There are never explicit details shared, no talk of conquests or sexual gratification. It’s more than Jean can say for himself really, which makes it feel even worse. How can he possibly be angry about the lovely women of Amestris choosing such exquisite quality over the common mass-produced country boy? So it’s frustrating, but not surprising.

“I should just give up on women, shouldn’t I?” He asks Falman, who immediately looks like he regrets agreeing to leave for lunch. Then again, Falman rarely looks pleased about things, his face mostly stuck in an unimpressed scowl. Jean will just pretend it’s the usual one and keep on talking. “Who knows, maybe getting down on my knees will be easier than I anticipated.” Jean continues and sighs to the heavens. The street is bustling with life, the lunch hour making itself known around them.

“Getting down on you knees isn’t exclusive to…” Falman trails off, like he’s not sure he wants to finish the sentence, even if it means he gets to correct Jean’s mistake. Could be the fact that people are moving around them that keeps his silence. Explicit conversations probably shouldn’t be held on busy streets where anyone can listen in or overhear. Falman clears his throat and Jean sighs once more, to emphasise his unhappiness.

“Would you sleep with me if worst comes to worst Falman?”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that.” Is the only response Jean’s question receives. It makes him pout and want to slam the restaurant door he’s holding open in Falman’s face. Jean doesn’t deserve this kind of treatment; his feelings are valid dammit!

“Well, one of these days I’m going to snap, and who knows who will get in my way when I finally do.” It’s only half a joke. Half because Jean really isn’t the type of guy who would harm innocents just because his own life is turning out to be less than exciting. He really is tired of constantly being snubbed of dates and having his libido starved though.

“I’ll make sure to invest in some pepper spray.” Falman nods, as if they’re not both military men with access to far greater means of defence.

“Good to know I can count on you to spice up my life.”

They don’t speak more about it after that. Jean isn’t sure why, but maybe he doesn’t want Falman to really know how much it bothers him. Maybe he just wants to pretend everything is the way it usually is and that there isn’t something in his chest, squeezing his heart a little tighter with every day that passes. If only his right hand was enough to ease the weight pushing him down.

 

 

—

 

 

They’re not very touchy, the team Mustang has put together. Considering that they’re military, they’re probably more so than most. But compared to Armstrong and his team, however whiny they are about their affectionate giant, there’s not much at all. A hand on a shoulder at the most. Jean is actually surprised the first time he pats Ed’s head and doesn’t have his hand chopped of. There is the delayed reaction of Ed punching him in the face and going off about how his height does not invite cuddles, but since that’s due to a complex rather than the actual physical contact itself, Jean will let it pass. Ed soon starts letting it pass too, when Jean makes sure to pat the shoulder of the armour that is his brother every now and then too. Does Al get touch starved? Does Jean’s fingers register or is it one big blob of a hand on the metal?

It doesn’t matter, Jean will not make a difference between the brothers, other than the obvious need to tease Ed a little more. Al, he’s much too kind for Jean to bother him with any kind of comment. Or, maybe he’s is a bit too scared to step on his toes; doesn’t know how the little brother would react. Jean is surprisingly bad at interpreting human emotion, and it’s even harder with Al, since he doesn’t give facial expressions to read.

When Jean decides to lay low with his dating efforts, at least for a while, Ed’s actually the one who comments on it first. And who would’ve thought that’d be the case. It’s actually with a “Aren’t you a bit too quiet these days Havoc? You actually managed to finally find yourself a girlfriend?”, so it isn’t really that his date-break is brought up, but his lack of talking about girls. Typical.

They’re in the office, because when are they not, and the Elric brothers hold the attention of precisely everyone in the room. That’s not to say that everyone are necessarily interested in what they are saying. It only means that they’re all bored out of their heads and willing to endure any kind of topic and reprieve from the bore of filling out documents that are important but exceedingly dull. 

“Nah,” he says in turn, grinning and shrugging. How does one really complain about too attractive superiors and the tiredness of constantly trying too hard. “Figured I’d let the girls find me instead of the other way around, who knows what will happen when I leave the playing field to the ladies instead?” He continues, since he doesn’t know any other way to explain it without really delving into the truth. It’s still kind of true, half a truth, which is better than outright lying about it.

“I’m guessing they’re quite happy catching a break” Ed says then, unknowingly stabbing into Jean’s newly developed and growing emotional hurdle. He keeps the smile on his face however; no need to let the kid feel bad about it. Jean’s an ass, but he’s not cruel, and Edward Elric is still only 15 years old. Sometimes, it feels like no one but Jean manages to keep this in mind. He shudders at the memory of what he himself was like at that age. Too many swipes at his head by his mother’s broom to be considered anything even close to mature, that’s for sure.

“You hurt me!” He exclaims, overdoing the reaction by putting a hand on his chest and sniffing loudly. First then does he notice Falman’s pensive face, and other than the miracle that Jean has learnt to read such an unexpressive face it makes him feel a little like he needs to hide. He really should be better at keeping his own emotions in check.

“Back to work.” Hawkeye says then, saving Jean from having to continue the current conversation. Grateful, he points finger guns at the lieutenant and then does as she commands at the unimpressed expression that greets him.

By the time the Elrics leave Jean is certain that everyone have moved on from the previous subject, far more important things on their minds. Like these blasted reports. It allows him a breath of air as he stares down at the documents in front of him, wondering why he’s even making such a big deal out of it. It doesn’t make sense, being this sensitive about it. It isn’t a big deal. Probably, he’s just being overdramatic. Could probably use a drink or two. Calm his nerves down.

“You okay?” Breda asks him when they’re both up getting coffee. He doesn’t sound like he’s digging for information, but Jean knows him better than that. They’ve been friends for too long and Breda is far more perceptive than people take him for.

Sipping at his cup, Jean looks at the other man. “S’alright” he says. “You?”

“Fine” Breda nods. “Can’t complain, though I’m looking forward to the weekend.”

“Yeah, same.”

When they’re back in their seats, no more excuses keeping them from doing their work, Mustang returns from a meeting, prompting them all to stand up and salute him. The Colonel greets them with a tired yet pleased smile. The lieutenant and he exchange a few words as the rest of them return to their previous occupations, though Jean finds himself stuck, staring at nothing as he contemplates his plans for the weekend. He could go drinking, would probably feel a bit better from it. Number, if nothing else. But it’s always been more of a social thing for him, and Jean isn’t sure what it means that the drinking he’s now giving consideration is more of the isolated kind. His mum wouldn’t be pleased with him, if she knew about it. His grandfather had been a bit too far down his bottles, drowning the world in every percent he could get at.

Jean doesn’t realise he’s playing with his lighter until his thoughts are interrupted by the Colonel’s voice. He doesn’t even register the words, just his own name, and when he looks up a few seconds of silence have already passed. It’s then that the lighter slips out of his fingers and he has to look down at it to know what he’s been holding in his hand.

“Colonel?” He asks, eyes trailing up again. Wondering if he’s missed something important; if there was importance to the words he’s missed out on. The Colonel’s eyes are narrowed when he meets them.

“Please wait until five before clocking out Havoc, we don’t pay you for daydreaming.” 

With that said, Mustang moves to sit down at his own desk. 

“Of course, sir.” Jean mutters, pocketing his lighter and allowing his eyes to go back to the papers in front of him. The remaining hour and a half he doesn’t say anything, numbly going through paperwork and looking forward to a drink or two. No way is he sleeping tonight without losing a little of himself in the process.

When he leaves the office it’s with a tired wave of his hand and a forced smile. The others don’t look a whole lot more alive than he does though, so it’s presumably nothing really noticeable. 

It’s still fairly light outside, the sun still visible near the horizon, so Jean’s walk home is pleasantly relaxing. He’s been walking home for months now, even if it takes him up to forty minutes when he’s at his slowest. It’s a way to keep his physical endurance up if nothing else, since the military proved to be made up off of more sitting around than Jean had anticipated when he chose his career. He does go running every now and then, but it’s only the walking that really forces him to move his body around. The mornings are the worst though. The mornings he could do without.

 

 

—

 

 

His tongue both tastes and feels a little fuzzy. It’s unclear whether it’s because he’s on his way to a drunken state or because of what he’s been drinking, but the feeling isn’t all too pleasant. It’s ultimately what makes Jean leave the bar for the bathroom, scraping paper napkins over the body of his tongue, when he finds it’s empty of other people. The person looking back at him in the mirror looks like he’s seen better days, the stubble and vacant eyes ageing his face. Yes, he’s definitely done for the day. Or evening, rather.

He gets one last shot before he finally leaves the building, vodka, so it probably leaves his mouth a little cleaner he thinks. It’s a disinfectant, so it’s basically mouthwash, right?

The dark skies above throws him a little, when did that happen? Jean has to feel his wrist to remember that no, he isn’t wearing a watch. Which he should know, since he never wears one, despite the practicality of having one. The streets are fairly empty, but rather than having to do with peoples’ habits of going out, it probably has more to do with the part of town he’s in. It’s not too fancy; not cozy or homely. Maybe calling it a calm area would make it most justice.

He’s about a hundred metres along the way home when he sees the form of someone he thinks he knows. Squinting his eyes, tilting his head and pursing his lips it still takes him a moment to realise who’s stumbled out the door of another bar.

“Colonel?” He asks, himself more than the other man, because he isn’t entirely sure he’s not hallucinating. It appears that he’s not when he’s grabbed by the elbow and dragged along.

“Excellent! I could use your help, Second Lieutenant!” The Colonel says, pulling Jean into the closest alley. Jean doesn’t say a word in protest, too occupied managing to stay on his feet, and not falling, to speak. He’s still reeling a little from the surprise of running into his superior too. It hasn’t happened before, but maybe that’s because they don’t frequent the same kinds of places. Jean chose today’s venue knowing that it’s on the opposite side of town to the one he and Breda usually ventures to.

As soon as they’ve left the street Jean can hear the sound of loud voices, unhappy loud voices, sounding like they’d very much like to hurt somebody. He’s guessing the somebody in this case is Mustang, since he looks a little pained, a frown evident on his face.

“Give me your jacket” The Colonel demands, shrugging his own off. There’s not a lot to do but comply, so Jean does has he’s told and takes the one he’s offered. Mustang’s is long, charcoal grey and a little tight in the shoulders, a coat really, the kind that looks too fancy on people like Jean. His own is green, of a shorter model and made from synthetic materials. It doesn’t look bad on Mustang, but it doesn’t look like something he’d wear. Which is the point, Jean realises.

“What’s going on?”

“Do you have a cigarette?” The Colonel asks, and Jean starts patting himself down before remembering that he gave up his jacket about three seconds ago. “Shit, right” Is said then, the Colonel realising the same thing. Jean points to the pocket he thinks contains his packet, unwilling to pat his superior down to make sure. He’s not that drunk.

“Did you do something?” Jean asks, positioning himself so that he’s blocking the view of Mustang from the opening of the alley. He’s pretty sure he knows the answer to the question anyway.

“Not really, I think-“ Apparently it’s not the right pocket, because the Colonel frowns and hisses a somewhat desperate “Jean!” at him.

It’s a good plan, two men smoking in an alley, couldn’t look more normal. The use of his name renders Jean a little helpless though, and he can’t help but stare for a moment at the other man. Then he makes a snap decision, because Jean’s jacket has too many pockets, really, and he’s currently not capable of thought. There’s also the voices sounding like they’re coming closer.

“I swear to god-"

All it takes is Jean’s hand on Mustang’s chest to quiet him, and when Jean leans forward and seals their lips together he makes no move to stop him. Instead, he grabs hold of the collar of Jean’s shirt, as if to anchor them together.

Then he’s licking, biting, lightly kissing Jean, making a real show of it, as Jean does his best to keep up and find a place for his own hands. His left ends up cupping Mustang’s cheek, skin soft and warm under his fingers, and the right hand pressing at his waist, as if searching for a well-known curve it’s gotten too used to finding. Instead, there’s only straight lines and solidity to find through the layers of clothes and Jean lets the hand slide down further. He finds himself hooking his thumb into a belt-loop and letting his fingers splay over a hip instead, allowing for the nice option of pulling Mustang closer. That earns him a pleased hum and- it shouldn’t be this easy to push the Colonel around. Though thinking about what must be going through Mustang’s head seems like a challenge Jean isn’t ready to take on. It’s strategy anyways, it all makes sense.

Jean is leaning quite a bit, Mustang being a fair bit shorter; a fact that hasn’t really registered before, and it gives a pleased twinge down Jean’s spine. Mustang’s got the looks, muscle and charisma to make up for his shorter build, but like this, Jean would bet he’s fairly hidden away between the wall and the width and length of Jean’s own body. He releases Mustang’s lips with a gasp, feeling off-kilter at the beat of his heart and the flush colouring his cheeks.

“Have they passed?” He whispers, lips barely brushing against Mustang’s as he forms the words.

He can’t help the shuddering breath he has to take when Mustang leans forward to take his earlobe into his mouth, sucking on it as he undoubtedly scans the opening of the alley. 

“Probably?” Mustang breathes into his ear, nails brushing against Jean’s neck as he cards fingers through his hair. Jean doesn’t even know how they ended up there, pulling at the strands and teasing a groan out of him. “I don’t know” is added, Mustang’s mouth moving across Jean’s cheek, planting kisses along the skin, and Jean’s heart is going wild, adrenaline rushing his blood. It’s thrilling, this hiding in plain sight thing, and he bets it’s doing a number on Mustang too. Has to, considering the shakiness of his breath and wide pupils of his eyes. Or, maybe Mustang’s scared. Jean knows he would be if he was being hunted down, no matter the reason for it.

“Are we clear?” Jean asks then, ignoring the teeth at his jaw, and focusing on the the hand Mustang has slid down his chest. The other still stuck in his hair and still pulling.

“Two more minutes?” Mustang asks in response and it’s a good idea, just in case, so Jean both nods and groans in answer. They don’t want to be discovered, so they’ll have to stay on the safe side of things. It’s the perfect plan really, because no one would ever believe the Colonel to hook up in a dark alley behind a dingy bar with some random dude. The focal point of that being the dude part. The Colonel would definitely hook up with girls in dark alleys, as long as it was consensual.

When their mouths connect again Jean can’t really help himself, has to press closer. It’s cold outside, so the warmth of Mustang’s skin does wonders to his shivers, the contact fire to Jean’s nerves. Mustang must be thinking something along the same lines because he does nothing to stop it; readily accepts being trapped between Jean and the bricks at his back.

His solidity is fascinating really and Jean has to wonder how much time he spends exercising, considering the many hours they usually spend in the office allowing their bodies no movement. Exercise is not something that Jean enjoys a whole lot himself, who mostly jogs to keep himself in shape. Mustang’s body responds wonderfully to Jean’s, is tense and malleable at the same time.

It takes a moment for Jean to realise that Mustang’s hands have found their way underneath his shirt and are stroking his sides encouragingly. This discovery is what finally makes him still, unsure of how to proceed because really, what is going on? This wasn’t how this Friday night was supposed to go.

“How much have you been drinking?” Mustang asks when they finally part, eyes on Jean’s mouth. 

“Uh, a bit” Jean responds, because he doesn’t quite remember, to be honest. “Do I taste weird?” He asks then, licking his own lips as if that’s going to give him an answer. 

“Not as such” Mustang snorts and pushes his hair back with a hand. “Just wondering how much of this you’re going to remember tomorrow.” He looks a little unsure then, dwarfed in Jean’s jacket, and mouth pursed, troubled.

“Haven’t got a clue” Jean says, honestly. “I usually remember most of what I’ve done, but I have also had a little more than usual too…”

“Hmm”

“I won’t tell anyone if that’s what you’re really worried about - though I’m sure no one’d believe me if I did.” Mustang’s hands are still on his skin, though they’re not moving now, just holding him. They feel nice, grounding, and Jean sort of wishes he didn’t have to back away from them. He does though, because he’s a grown man who can handle his business.

 

 

—

 

 

He wakes to find himself wishing he hadn’t. He feels like death, a crumbling excuse of a human being, too weak to even open his eyes. He’s still wearing the same clothes, sans shoes, and it feels like he’s defiled his own bed just by sleeping in it. Like his own existence is too disgustingly stale to not stain everything he surrounds himself with. He’ll have to change the sheets. A task he is currently feeling no interest in.

It’s when he’s in the bathroom that the previous evening truly catches up to him, when he’s thrown his clothes off on the floor and realises there’s a mark on his throat. A mark that can be nothing else but a remnant from a certain superior’s lips and teeth. Jean has to touch it to make sure his brain is not fucking with him, but it’s tender, the skin definitely bruised.

Funny thing, he doesn’t remember the Colonel latching onto his throat to make a mark like this happen. And considering Jean’s experience with hickeys he knows he should have noticed; it doesn’t take nibbling and playful kisses to make a mark like the one he’s brandishing. It takes more.

Deciding he’ll be better off not thinking too much about it he steps into the shower and washes his sins away. It doesn’t do anything for his headache, but he feels cleansed when he’s finished and can slip into a clean pair of boxers. Like a skin has been shed and he’s ready to face the day, regardless of how mundane and boring it’s going to be to make up for yesterday’s obvious mistakes. Drinking alone is not a good idea. No wonder he doesn’t do that.

The laziness of Saturday stretches into Sunday and before Jean knows it it’s time to head to bed and mentally prepare for another week of work. He touches his throat again, in bed, wondering if the Colonel remembers he marked him. Wonders what to say if anyone else comments on it, because scarves are not part of the uniform, however much he wishes it was so.

Jean doesn’t know if Hawkeye is the kind of woman who carries makeup around, but maybe she’d lend him some if she is.

 

 

—

 

 

Hawkeye is not the kind of woman to carry makeup around, apparently. Jean’s life is an apparent magnet to bad luck. Who’s surprised? At least she doesn’t say anything about the mark. Only eyes him, mouth pursed and expression blank. Thank god she’s not making this hard for him. She definitely has the ability to leave him to the proverbial wolves.

She also doesn’t comment on his stubble, because apparently shaving daily is above him too these days. Jean’s mother would cry. What Hawkeye does do is sigh. Waves a hand to demand his leave, clearly tired of his nonsensical requests and tired face.

They’re alone in the office for about ten minutes, then Breda and Fuery arrives, happy carpoolers that they are. Falman takes another five to arrive, looking immaculately ready for a week of work. Jean hates them all for being so much more put together than he is.

It takes a moment, they all sit at their desks and collects themselves. Figures out the dynamics of the day, the energies. That moment, and then Breda opens his sorry mouth to raise all of Jean’s hackles. Each single little hackle that lingers within him.

“Damn Havoc, looks like the ladies really did find you after all” Breda snorts, amused. Fuery outright grins when he sees what Breda has noticed and Falman’s contemplative hum isn’t better. Just this once, Jean hates them all with a vengeance.

“Hah” Jean says, forcing himself to smile. “Like we didn’t all see that coming?” He manages to wrench out, the words poison on his tongue. Jean might not be the most eloquent of men, but he’s not the kind to lie and pretend, especially not to people he considers his friends. At least not about actual events that have taken room, lying about his feelings is more like making sure that nobody worries unnecessarily.

“She know you’re military? Cause I gotta say, most girls are reluctant to maul whoever strikes their fancy” Breda winks as he speaks, clearly unable to tell the effect he has on Jean, who feels like he’s going to be sick.

“Come on, it’s not that bad” he says, putting a hand to his throat, covering up the contradictory evidence. The snort from Fuery is a visceral punch to the gut. Jean’s not sure why the lies wrenches his guts, why the others’ reactions render him helpless to it.

All it takes is Hawkeye clearing her throat, and the rest of them turn their attention elsewhere. Jean could kiss her, would build a shrine in her honour and offer sacrifices daily to keep her on his side and happy. He smiles at her, pleased with this turn of events even more when she looks back with, if not understanding, then at least soothing acceptance. He could be reading far too much into it, then again, he’s never bothered with covering up any of his previous hickeys. Perchance she’s reading into things as well.

Maybe there’s something in his eyes, speaking of this sudden worship, because the moment Jean hears Mustang’s voice it’s dripping with scornfulness. “Havoc, please keep your attention to your work, we’re trying to be professional” he says, the reprimand announcing his arrival to the office. The Colonel’s lips are pursed, eyes unreadable.

It’s hard to believe that Jean’s tongue has been in that mouth. That his lips have been in contact with the soft skin of Mustang’s throat. It’s unreal. It’s unthinkable. Jean can feel himself turn inward at the words handed to him. Professional is a long way from their Friday. Could be, that this is Mustang’s way to tell him to not mention it, to keep quiet.

It’s ridiculous; like Jean would ever tell anyone about it. Not only is Mustang his superior officer, he’s insufferably male and an irreparable casanova. Who’d even believe Jean if he were to speak of the truth? Had he not had the first hand experience he’d have been reluctant to believe that the Colonel would even be able to consider kissing another man. Or, kiss back, he corrects himself, because Jean remembers his own role in it. He’s the one who chose to use his mouth rather than fish out a damn packet of cigarettes.

None of it matters. It shall remain a secret, well-kept at that.

“Did you have a good weekend Colonel?” Fuery asks, prompting Jean to shuffle his papers around a bit; anything to not have to look at his superior as he answers the question.

“Certainly, how was yours?”

No details. For some reason that feels more telling than anything else would have. Then again, could be that that’s just Jean projecting his inner turmoil. Nobody else moves as much as a finger to prove any sort of suspicion, so yeah, Jean’s definitely being too much for his own brain to handle at the moment. 

Stuck with his eyes on his desk and thoughts railing Jean decides to put some walls up. He’s never been much for compartmentalising or sorting his mind out to make sense of it, but he knows how to if he has to. And shutting a mental door on himself feels like a good idea right about now. Maybe he should have done that earlier even.

It makes things less of a problem, and for at least a while Jean manages. Does the work he’s supposed to do. Flirts flightily with the available ladies he runs into, without bothering to care for them. Falls asleep at night knowing he’ll wake the next day and do it all again. It works right up until it doesn’t.

 

 

—

 

 

Two weeks have passed, two and a half really, since it’s Tuesday.

“Is this going to be problem?” Mustang asks, his face half hidden away behind his clasped hands. _This_ being Jean, it’s obvious now. What Mustang is really asking is whether he’s going to ruin everything. Whether Jean will be the problem to make him fall from grace.

“Certainly not, sir,” Jean replies, barely noticing the tremor in his voice, too caught up in the movement of Mustang’s face as he grimaces.

It’s strange, sitting here in Mustang’s sofa, knowing that this is probably where he usually sits with the girls he brings home. Entertaining them, making them laugh. He’s not exactly sure what it means that that is the kind of scenario that his mind decides to paint up, but Jean is speechless regardless. Caught in a lie he’s been telling himself for obviously too long, considering the Colonel. Considering he’s probably been found out and will now meet his maker.

It’s one thing to lie to everyone else, another to lie to himself and believe it. Shit. He knows exactly why he’s thinking of Mustang’s girls. Thinking about everything that he really truly shouldn’t. It’s wrong. So wrong it catches his breath with the weight of it.

“Havoc,” Mustang says, no light-heartedness to the tone of his voice. “Do we need to talk about this?” He asks and the look in his eyes hardly quiets the thrum in Jean’s body.

Strangely it’s his mother that Jean thinks about when he responds. His lovely little mother who would undoubtedly cry at the mere implication of his words. She doesn’t deserve it, the truth that leaves with the breath of his words. She’d probably prefer it if he did follow in his grandfather’s footsteps down the neck of a bottle.

“I think I have been compromised, sir,” Jean says, sounding wrong even to his own ears. “There’s- I can’t-“ Catching a breath he stares at his hands. “I’m sorry for it, but I will have to transfer”.

“I understand,” Mustang’s voice is clipped, a rap across the distance between them. It shouldn’t hurt, but it does. It should be fine, but it isn’t.

“Thank you, sir,” Jean says regardless. Stiff, uncomfortable, far too emotionally strained.

“For what it’s worth, I apologise for the discomfort that I’ve caused.”

Mustang says more than that, but Jean doesn’t catch on. Doesn’t register the words because - what? “I’m sorry,” he interrupts whatever Mustang is saying. “I- You can hardly blame yourself for this?” The mere idea of it is ridiculous, how at fault can Mustang be for being attractive? You’d hardly blame the rain for being wet. It’s still a pain to admit, the underlying fascination with the Colonel’s face, but Jean would never, ever, even imagine blaming Mustang.

“Jean, you were clearly inebriated and I was taking advantage of the situation. It was an unacceptable overstep that I should have been reluctant to engage in. Some would argue it’s valid for a case of sexual harassment. I’m afraid that blaming me for this is hardly a question, it’s a necessity!”

He shrinks in on himself, Mustang, after he’s finished. Looks beaten, tired, and Jean can’t say a word. It takes a moment, takes two, before he can even shift in his seat, thoughts railing through his brain. The sofa is still soft underneath him, the coarseness of the fabric a comfort as he grips at it. 

“I kissed you,” He says, when it’s clear that he has so say something. Meets Mustang’s eyes when it’s clear he’s going to protest. “And I would do it again, here, right now, and I there’s not a drop of alcohol in my body to explain it.”

Mustang is staring at him, wide-eyed and more thrown than Jean has ever seen him before.

“I want to, even,” He continues, because the cat’s already out of the bag, Jean’s already thrown himself off of the cliff. “I can’t stop thinking about what we did, about the- I just can’t, and that’s why I need to-“

He stops talking when Mustang stands up, feels a tremor of fear through his body when the man takes the two steps it takes to end up in front of Jean, over him. Then he gasps, barely aware of anything else when Mustang’s hand slides into his hair and pulls his head back with a firm twist of his wrist. Jean’s heart has never beaten this hard in his chest, and he can’t breathe, scared of what will happen next. A fist in his face isn’t unreasonable, some scathing words may be a bit more the Colonel’s style.

Mustang’s lips connecting with his was nowhere near his expectations. Throws him. Has him frozen in his seat even as the Colonel cups his face with his other hand, and burns his skin with the reminder of the last time it connected with it.

When he finally thinks to reciprocate Mustang’s mouth has already left his, though his breath is warm over Jean’s lips. Moving slowly, Mustang moves to straddle him, his hands pushing on his shoulders to have Jean lean back. There’s heat radiating between them, the weight of Mustang solid over him and it can’t be anything but a dream. Any moment now Jean is going to wake up rutting into his sheets and feel shame for the vividness of his dreams. It wouldn’t be the first time, he thinks, ashamedly.

Mustang kisses him again, lips gentler than before, and Jean feels every little last bit of reluctance leave him when he can’t help but kiss him back. They move languidly until the very first roll of Mustang’s hips. Then what was soft kisses and tentative hands turns into licks, nips and almost groans as Jean responds in turn. He can only hold on when Mustang latches onto the skin between his shoulder and throat, surely making another mark.

“I’m not in love with you,” Jean says, now that his mouth is free, and also because that is something that needs to be said. If Mustang is relying on some idea that this could be something to write into his future that needs to be rectified at once. As much as Jean wants to learn each dip and curve of Mustang’s body, he’s not interested in an emotional connection.

“Good, I’m not in love with you either and that would have been entirely too much to handle for me,” is mumbled into his skin and followed by a gasp when Jean grabs hold of Mustang’s ass. They’re both hard, both panting for it, and Jean revels in it. Pushes against his very own limits, pushes into Mustang likes there’s no tomorrow, no coming regret to weigh him down. All that matters is the throbbing of his flesh and the sound of Mustang’s encouragements in his ear.

It happens all too quick. Feels not as much as a mistake as an itch that has been pulverised instead of scratched. An avalanche instead of a snowfall. 

Mustang is still in his lap when Jean really comes back to himself, body still tingling with his release and the inside of his briefs too sticky for comfort. Their arms are still curved around each other and Mustang’s forehead is resting on Jean’s shoulder. It’s both strange and comfortable, all at the same time.

“You know, I think I might stay after all” Jean says, voice a rasp. “I guess I don’t _have_ to transfer, really”.

Leaning back from him, carefully yet guiltily smiling, Mustang pats at his chest. “It’s up to you, Havoc. I can’t say you wouldn’t be missed though” he says, and Jean knows he’s talking with the team in mind, but it still hits him right in solar plexus. Warmth spreading to his cheeks, colouring them red. They’re both in such a mess. Good god.

 

 


	2. A time and place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean Havoc and Roy Mustang are a thing. They're something. If only they knew exactly what that something was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! 6000-ish words in less than two weeks! And, I also made the tentative decision to guess that I'll manage a full 10-chapter story. Such bravery, such foolishness!
> 
> Unbeta'd, because what are friends?

 

 

There’s something going on. Definitely. Certainly. Jean knows it. He also knows that the others know it, on some level, at least. The one with the most knowledge is, as per usual, the Colonel though. And isn’t that interesting. Typical. Predictable.

All Jean really knows though is that the Elric brothers are somehow involved. Which makes him worried for himself and those poor kids; like they haven’t seen enough suffering in this world. There’s no way for him to approach them though, no way to really slide by and offer his shoulder to cry on. Not that he necessarily would want to, but it feels like something the world owes them. Again, they’re too young for the terrible terrible things that they’ve seen and it breaks Jean’s heart.

It’s all hush-hush. Secret. Secret enough that the Colonel’s unusually quiet about the things that are going on in his life. Doesn’t brag even close to as much as he usually does about all of the women he surrounds himself with and the multiple dates he’s always out on. That’s one of the things that Jean would have thought would be different now but aren’t. It’s still hard to believe that anything ever happened between the two of them. He gets it though, he really does. Jean isn’t ready to give women up either, they’re too mesmerisingly beautiful for it.

He’s thinking about precisely all of these things when he and Breda are out at their usual bar, a place where there’s no risk of running into a certain superior anytime soon. Sips at his beer and considers the redhead over by the jukebox at the same time. Jean’s an expert multitasker.

“She’s pretty,” Breda says, a little too loud, and Jean sighs as she frowns over at them. He probably didn’t have a chance anyway. Sending him a sheepish smile, Breda shrugs, as if to say sorry. He’s forgiven, will always be, but Jean still snorts at him and rolls his eyes.

“Doesn’t matter, I’ve got other options,” Jean says, not really knowing whether that’s true. Nothing’s happened between him and the Colonel since the last time, when they both embarrassingly messed each other up on the sofa in Mustang’s living room. Not really. At least nothing of substance. They’ve shared a few looks at most.

“I’m sure,” Breda nods, because he’s a good guy like that. Doesn’t question Jean’s ability to get laid. 

“How about you, got any dames in sight?” Jean asks, because he tries to be a good guy, even if he often catches himself being a bit too self-centred for comfort. “Or are you still getting over your sister’s friend?”

It’s unfair; Breda’s smart and attentive, good at his job and looks like a cuddly bear. Jean doesn’t know why he isn’t more popular with the ladies. Not that he’s unpopular, but it always seems like Breda’s the one stuck looking, rather than being looked at. It’s a shame. Jean would even go as far as calling his friend attractive.

He catches himself, swallows and frowns. Breda _is_ someone people should be feeling feelings for. Carefully, Jean gives him a look, takes a moment to estimate the possibility of him feeling attracted to his friend. It’s weird and embarrassing - they’re friends - but it feels important, like he should see if the Colonel is an exception to the rule. Jean hasn’t ever found himself fantasising about any other man; he wants to know if he could. It would certainly be easier, finding someone not directly related to work. The again, if it was the sort of thing he could control out of the ease of it he wouldn’t have started anything with Mustang in the first place.

If he has some sort of type, it seems Breda isn’t it. It’s nothing but awkward looking him over and imagining the two of them locking lips. Almost shameful. Maybe they’re simply too close, more like brothers than anything else. They’ve known each other what feels like forever after all.

“There is nothing to get over, it was over before it started,” Breda says and shrugs, and Jean takes a moment to remember what they’re talking about.

“Which means you’re ready to pounce on somebody else, ey?” Jean smiles, raising his glass and wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“I’d say I’m as ready as you are, except I’m not desperate for it,” Breda jokes, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. He still clinks his glass to Jean’s though, because Breda is an allover nice person. For a second or two Jean contemplates telling him about it, about Mustang. He doesn’t though. Not because Breda wouldn’t be the most understanding and decent about it, but it feels private. Like something meant to be hidden. Maybe one day he’ll let it slip and they’ll have a good laugh about those weeks in Jean’s life where he risked fucking up both his career and life. Not today though. Today, Jean will be silent about it.

“And don’t I know it,” Jean says, taking a deep drink from his glass, finishing it off and burping silently. “I think I’m done for today - I’m beyond tired.” He probably looks it too, which as of right now feels more like a blessing than curse.

They say their goodbyes, Jean leaving Breda to finish and venturing out into the early evening. He feels warm in his uniform, but can’t be bothered taking his jacket off only to carry it in his arms.

He shouldn’t, but can’t help himself. The payphone is right there, ready to be used, and Jean knows the number like the back of his hand.

 

 

—

 

 

Mustang doesn’t smile at him when he’s opening his front door. Only gives Jean a quick once-over and moves to the side to let him in. He’s unforgivingly handsome, casually dressed in linen pants and a button up. That the thought strikes Jean as soon as he lays eyes on him is a bit overwhelming though. He shouldn’t be acting like some teenage girl, weak at the knees at the mere sight of a boy she likes.

“Evening,” Jean says, feeling a bit too formal, after the door has been closed behind him. “I’m sorry for intruding.”

“No worries, you’re all welcome here any time of day.”

All. They’re all welcome here. Shit.

Maybe Jean made the biggest mistake in coming here tonight. His palms are moist with sweat. He still wishes to take off his jacket. He also can’t look at the Colonel, not going over the words in his mind and questioning his every move.

“That’s-“ Jean says, licking at his lips.

“I don’t know, maybe you more than anyone else though,” Mustang says then, making it sound both like a statement and a question in one. The words are a stream of chilling relief. “Why are you here Jean?”

“I, uhm.” Bravery doesn’t come easy, not when it comes to talking about emotions at least. “I wanted to see you?”

Humming in response, Mustang takes hold of Jean’s elbow and drags Jean with him into the kitchen. “I think I’ll make us both a cup of coffee and we can talk a little further.”

Of all things, Jean compliments the Colonel on his curtains as the other moves to get the coffee grounds. Then makes things further embarrassing talking about the importance of a pop of colour. He really doesn’t know what he’s talking about, the words flowing in steady nervous streams out of him.

“Jean,” he’s interrupted. “Please, let loose.”

They’re both silent for a moment or two. The coffee maker puttering on and releasing steam into the air. Jean still want to be rid of his jacket. Actually, he wishes he was wearing something else completely. The fabric of their military suits is practical, but hardly comfortable enough to want to lounge in.

“I want to, uhm, spend some time with you,” Jean says, knowing that it’s perfectly obvious what he means, what he’s indicating. But hell, it probably was obvious when he bloody well called and asked to come over. Jean is transparency itself.

“Maybe we can actually take it to a bed this time around?” Mustang smiles, and Jean kind of wants to hit him a little, for the heat that licks at his insides at those words. He also wants to kiss him, but that’s turning out to be the new normal for him, it seems.

“I wouldn’t object to that,” Jean responds and takes the cup of coffee Mustang has poured for him. He refuses to do anything other than playing it cool. He’s already turned into less than a ladies man; he’ll be damned before allowing himself to not even be able to handle the situation around the one man that has caught his interest. He hopes that the Colonel doesn’t notice the way he wobbles his cup on the way to his mouth, almost spilling coffee all over himself.

Unfortunately, the coffee is too hot for consumption. Which figures. So Jean’s whole idea to appear suave goes right down the drain. He almost spits his first mouthful out before forcing himself to swallow. Typical. And Mustang the bastard only smiles, knowingly, and blows at his own.

This whole situation is too similar to ones spent at work, the military headquarter in East City. Two men standing around drinking coffee, politely keeping up conversation as to not make things awkward. Jean is sweating. He knows where this is going. Mustang knows where this is going. Still, there they are, leaning against kitchen counters and avoiding eye contact. Then again, from what Jean’s heard, Mustang is the one who supposedly knows his shit. Casanova extraordinaire. If he wants Jean horizontal he can well put in a little bit of effort.

Does that make Jean the girl in the scenario though? Does that put certain other expectations upon Jean that he might not be entirely comfortable with? He clears his throat, worriedly and side-eyes the Colonel, trying to read his body language. Does he look like he’s waiting for Jean to submit?

“I’ve never been with a man,” Jean says, because he simply can’t not say it. “Other than, you know, the previous two occasions where we were… ‘involved’.”

“I have.”

Well, shit. Jean’s not sure if he expected it or not. But, this still doesn’t put any clarity to eventual expectations. An experienced man might even consider it best to take the lead. Blushing at the mere thought of actually allowing such a thing to happen, Jean takes another mouthful of coffee to buy some more time. Words are troublesome, especially when they don’t come to you naturally.

“When?” Jean finds himself asking. Not because he necessarily wants to know, but it might clue him in on what kind of experience Mustang has with it. Are there multiple occasions and multiple men - these things are relevant - and did they all have happy endings?

“Hm, I guess the first ‘proper’ time happened during the war in Ishval - it’s not too unusual an occurrence. I’ve heard of others engaging in similar activities,” Mustang says, shrugging like it’s not that big of a deal, and looks out the window.

“I took part in the war, same as everyone else, but I swear I never considered it an option,” Jean responds, but even as he says it, he knows it to be wrong. He had, but then had dismissed the idea as something not for him.

“It wasn’t about considering it an option, it was about forgetting about the blood on my hands, for at least a few moments a time. I needed it, more than anything else really,” Mustang sighs. “And it’s honestly always been an option to me, if not for the convenience of-“ He doesn’t finish his statement, only drags a palm over his face and turns to look at Jean again.

“So, you really don’t mind the fact that I’m a dude?” Jean can’t help it, he has to do an extra check, it all sounds too good to be true.

“I really care a whole lot more about the fact that I’m your superior officer and should know better than to start something with someone of from my own team. I was taught better than that.”

Well, at least they’re stuck in the mud together, Jean thinks. His fingers are itching to hold a cigarette, his blood craving a hit of nicotine. It’s all too much to think about really. This whole idea is a train wreck, but they’ve already boarded and taken off. There’s no point in trying to stop it now, no point in pretending nothing’s happened. He knew as much coming here really. Somewhere in his mind he was already fully aware of the implications. Superior officer or not, Jean has only encouraged it all, has done nothing to stop it. Not since those first few weeks after the kiss, or make-out session, rather, during which he was still absolutely certain that there was no way that Mustang would ever reciprocate any feelings of interest.

“Too late to try and make a difference now,” Jean shrugs, and puts his cup in the sink. There’s still coffee in it, but it’s too bitter on his tongue right this moment. “At least on my part,” he adds, because he was raised to not presume to know others’ feelings. Looking up, he takes two steps closer to the Colonel; close enough to touch.

Jean’s rewarded with an amused snort and a hand on his chest, right over his heart. Hopefully it’s not too obvious how hard it’s beating. “I think that me letting you in, entertaining you in my kitchen and discussing my previous experiences of being with men should be clue enough,” Mustang is smiling as he speaks, but his voice turns gravelly, playing further with Jean’s heartstrings. He’s also leaning closer, tilting his head up slightly. And that’s still such a whammy upon the head. Makes Jean feel bigger than he is, their difference in size made greater by mere proximation. In the tilt of Mustang’s head and in Jean looking down at him. In the way that he just wants to press Mustang down and cover him up.

It’s not the same with girls, they’ve always been smaller, Jean being bigger then isn’t worthy of note. Or, maybe it’s the juxtaposition of Mustang being his superior and in all ways more dangerous than Jean, yet clearly waiting here in front of him for Jean to take charge and barrel into him. Press him against surfaces.

Jean has to swallow. Take a breath. Take two. He almost doesn’t want to move, wants to stay stuck in this moment of delicious anticipation, where the only place they can go is for the crash of their bodies. He still does. Grabs Mustang’s face with both of his bands and presses their lips together to feel the electricity course through him, through them. Burning bright at the motion of Mustang kissing back and pulling at Jean’s lapels. They both taste of coffee.

 

 

—

 

 

“I really have to stop thinking about you as ‘the colonel’, it’s really messing with my head,” Jean lips are tingling. They’ve moved to the living room sitting area, back in the same couch as they were last time. The memory itself spurs Jean on, flushes heat through him.

Grimacing, Mustang leans back from him. “I think I’d prefer it if you didn’t as well, this is awkward enough as it is.”

“You think it’s awkward?” Jean asks, not knowing whether he should feel offended.

“I think the level of comfort I’m feeling about this situation is awkward. It really should probably feel a lot worse than it does, and that’s awkward to think about really.”

He gets it, Jean really does, and trails a hand over Mustang’s leg as he thinks about it. It’s a curious thing, the fact that other than the initial doubt that this could be something, it feels everything but wrong. It doesn’t necessarily feel right either, but it works, it fits, it’s comfortable. No one can never find out about it, of course, but other than that it doesn’t feel like a mistake at all.

Mustang’s hitch of breath has Jean look back up at his face, smiling as he lets his hand still. He pulls, almost gently, at his leg. They’re well on their way to being hard, both of them. Jean can tell from the strain of Mustang’s linen pants at his crotch; the fabric hides nothing.

They share another kiss, Mustang gentler than he’s been before, his teeth barely gracing at Jean’s jaw as he moves to nibble at his throat.

“You’ve got some strange vampiric thing going on, don’t you?” Jean asks, kneading Mustang’s thigh with his fingers as he leans back slightly to allow Mustang more space. He remembers the last mark that was left there, grunts when teeth really dig into his skin. The pain is both grounding and heady.

He’s about a hundred percent certain he’s got another bruise blossoming at his throat when Mustang finally leans back, grabbing his hand and pulling. And up the stairs they go. It’s an awfully big house for just one person, but maybe Mustang has people over at times, it sounds like something he’d do; invite people over and do dinner and wine.

Jean’s still thinking about the kind of person Mustang usually must bring home, the adjectives _pretty_ , _busty_ and _sophisticated_ rolling through his mind, as he’s pushed onto a bed, landing on his back with an oof. He sprawls, unintentionally, as he frowns at Mustang.

“Well, surely you didn’t have a repeat performance in mind,” Mustang states, undoing his pants in a most efficient and almost unceremonious manner. “I’d prefer it if we didn’t resort to mere dry-humping.”

“Nothing wrong with that” Jean replies, eyes locked to the sight of Mustang pushing his pants down his legs. He’s more muscular than anyone would have given him credit for and Jean wonders, silently, if he too should get undressed. He’s comfortable though, leaning against his elbows on the bed, and allowing Mustang to put on a show. Even if Mustang doesn’t really do anything other than pull unhurriedly at his garments it’s nothing but tantalising.

Mustang looks up at him and stills. Then they’re both stuck staring at each other. God, what have they gotten themselves into. The whole idea of them being together in any sort of way feels like a badly told joke, but it gets Jean even more hot and bothered. His cheeks are burning with the shame of it; they’re really not supposed to be doing anything of the like. Yet here they are, ready to get it on and mess each other up beyond recognition.

Jean wants it so much it hurts. He’s throbbing, dick hard and pushing against the fabric of his underwear and pants. It’s obvious, the shape of it clearly visible, and Jean feels like he’s panting. The tension in the room heightening his awareness of their every movement. Mustang is swaying a bit, hands caught in the fabric of his open shirt, pursed and ready to push it off. It’s like they’re both caught on a cliff, not knowing whether to jump or not. Free fall into the inevitable. They will, there’s no going back. Yet, the taste of it is extra sweet here, in its suspension.

“Say you want it,” Mustang says, voice hoarse all of a sudden. Gone from being neutrally dignified. 

“I do,” Jean responds, gulping. “Unbelievably much.”

“So why are you still dressed, why are you only lying there?” Mustang bites out, sounding angry. Frustrated. He pushes his hair back with a hand. “Show me,” he demands, eyes steel.

It makes sense, the need for confirmation, and Jean is too willing to submit to the order. He’s never been more interested in following command. He’s so fucked. How to proceed though? How can he make his intentions more obvious than he already has. He’s the one who called and came over. The one who initiated this to begin with. Lying back on the bed properly, staring into the ceiling, he quickly undoes his pants and pushes both them and his underwear down enough to take himself into his hand. And then he’s lying there, dick out and still in his stupid jacket that he’s been longing to get rid of all evening.

“Considering the fact that you’re one who has experience of this I really don’t think that this is in any way fair,” he says, and questions his everything as he slides off of the bed and onto his knees, hand still grasping his dick. Swallowing, he looks up at Mustang. “You should fuck my face, I think I’d like that.”

It’s like neither of them can really believe he just said that, but then Mustang stalks forward and grabs Jean by the hair, forcing his head to tilt back, and kisses him with a fervour that has them both gasping. Jean’s done postponing things further though, kissing is nice and all, but he’s not here to kiss. Kissing is just the gateway drug to further fields of exploration. That’s the reason as to why he grabs hold of Mustang’s briefs and pulls them down, no questions asked. Feeling even bolder, Jean then grabs Mustang by the ass and leans forward to lick along the full length of him.

“Oh god,” Mustang groans, grunts, something - Jean really doesn’t care as long as it’s noises of approval.

It’s weird. A good weird. The warm soft silkiness of Mustang’s skin at juxtaposition with how fucking hard he is. Jean keeps his eyes open as he pulls back slightly, only to really see what he’s working with, and it’s embarrassing how much he wants this. He’s fucking drooling. How he has not figured out he’s into dick before is beyond him. Because it couldn’t be more obvious.

Mustang swears when Jean runs a thumb over the head to smear out the precum, then jerks when Jean puts his mouth over him, sucking carefully at the very tip. It feels like that’s the smartest way to move forward. Small steps. As much as he’d love choking a bit, he kind of also wants to not stick Mustang down his throat and throw up or something. That’d be mortifying.

Slow seems to be both appreciated and damned from Mustang’s side of things, who doesn’t speak as much as mumbles expletives in response to Jean’s every move. It’s hard work though, which none of the girls Jean’s been with has ever bothered saying, and he feels kind of angry with himself for not appreciating their efforts more in the past. It feels like a victory though, when he can grunt encouragingly and push Mustang forward, into him. There’s spit and precum running down his chin, it’s all sloppy, slippery goodness and Jean sort of lost a bit of hardness in the middle of his diligent work that’s coming back with a vengeance now.

It’s not glamorous in any kind of way, tastes bitter and sweaty on his tongue, but as of right now Jean wouldn’t trade it for anything. Especially not when Mustang really starts taking things serious, grinding into him and moving on to gasping only single-syllable words.

Jean still thinking about whether he wants to swallow or not when Mustang pushes away and collapses to his knees to kiss him again. And promptly comes with a few pumps of his fists all over Jean’s stupid fucking jacket.

Laughing really shouldn’t be happening, but Jean can’t help himself, snorting as he tries to keep on kissing Mustang before giving it up for a lost cause. It’s ridiculous, typical and hilarious. He’s still laughing as Mustang starts jacking him off, smiling at him in mirrored amusement. Good god, are they fucked.

 

 

—

 

 

“Told you I had options,” Jean shrugs when Breda lifts an eyebrow, clearly eyeing the mark Mustang left. It doesn’t feel like last time, when it was all confusion and interest twisted into one. This time it feels like a conspiracy, something Jean can keep secret with a hidden smile rather than cold sweat.

They’re in the archive, Fuery lost to some file, and the two of them waiting for him to return to the land of the living so that they can all go for lunch.

“I know you said, it seems a little excessive, is all,” Breda snorts looking like he wants to poke at the bruise. “What kind of leech of a woman have you been going out with recently?”

“Wouldn’t you want to know?” Jean asks, smirking contentedly. He keeps his voice steady though, to show his unwillingness to really sharing any details. It’s unlike him, completely, but he’d rather not think up lies that he’ll have to remember. 

The both of them turn back to Fuery, still not showing any sign of life. Sharing a look they grab one arm each and physically forces him to part with whatever is keeping his interest. They only get half an hour for lunch and time is ticking away. At this rate they’ll have to settle for the hot dog stand next to the library for sustenance anyway.

 

 

—

 

 

It’s Thursday and Jean once again only wishes it was Friday. Work is monotonous, home is unchanging and he himself is getting tired of the dull drag of time. He is also itching for a cigarette, but that’s just the usual addiction to nicotine.

They aren’t supposed to smoke inside headquarters, but Jean doesn’t fucking care today. Today sucks and if he opens a window to sit in he’s basically outside anyway. Luckily, this is one of few rules that Hawkeyes doesn’t care if people break. Or he breaks, same difference. She only glares at him for a moment, then returns to her duties. Maybe she only accepts it because she knows he’ll twitch and manage absolutely nothing until it’s time for the scheduled break without having a smoke. She’s nice in the ways that matter, that one.

They’re both startled to attention when Mustang enters the office by kicking the door open, cursing under his breath. It’s a testament to his anger when he stops to complain at them, sharing details from the phone conversation he just had with Edward Elric that he normally wouldn’t.

There’s a reason for it though, and Jean even gets a second cigarette out and lights it, feeling like he needs this one even more.

What have those kids gotten themselves into? Jean can’t help but wince as Mustang continues his bitter tirade. It’s a horror story all around; a priest manipulating his people, twisting their minds with his religion and beliefs, and two blond haired somewhat innocent children having to figure it all out and confront him. Attempts of murder. Strange alchemy that requires no circles and doesn’t follow the rules of alchemy. Ed does the no circles thing, but he’s most certainly all about equivalent exchange. That kid is a walking talking thesaurus of alchemy. It’s hard to miss his passion on the subject.

“How did the military stationed nearby not notice anything?” Jean asks, thinking aloud, feeling slightly ill with it all. He doesn’t like what he doesn’t understand.

“Maybe they did, maybe they dismissed it as something fantastical and absurd,” Hawkeye says, frowning as she speaks, because she too probably hears the strangeness of what she’s saying. The military should always take all threats and strange occurrences seriously.

“It’s a mess, is what it is,” Mustang bites out, massaging his temples tiredly.

When Jean’s invited over to Mustang’s, discreetly and with no one else the wiser, he knows it’s for a release that both of them are yearning for. He welcomes the break of monotony for what it is and goes to bed that night - his own bed and alone, thank you very much - satiated and pleasurably spent. If nothing else, their thing does wonders for Jean’s ability to relax at the end of the day. What is it that they say though? Once is chance, twice is coincidence and third time’s a pattern.

It’s food for thought, that.

 

 

—

 

 

There’s a mad man running about, killing state alchemists to the left and the right. It’s been in the newspapers all week. The whole military is buzzing with gossip about it.

Jean could really do without bad news for a while. Could do without the conflict and the wars. They could all use some peace, some quiet days of prospering. He’s just happy to be stationed where he’s at, where things are kind of alright, compared with other places. At the same time as he wants to help, wants to make a change. He doesn’t want to fight, but he also doesn’t want to feel like he’s hiding away. It’s all a contradictory mess in his head.

Still, the news of this killer, able to actually kill several well-renowned state alchemists, makes Jean wonder what else such a man is capable of. What kind of horrors are yet to come? They’re all a bit tenser in the office, things are worse on the streets. It’s like they’re all holding their breaths. It’s awful and stress-inducing.

It’s bad enough that his mother called him the other day to talk about him being in risk, despite Jean being neither a state alchemist or near any of the places where the killer has been sighted. She also doesn’t listen when he tells her this, tutting with her voice and telling him to come home for a visit soon. She misses him, he knows, and wishes he spent more time missing her back than he does.

 

 

—

 

 

When news arrive of the Shou Tucker and his chimera it sounds like the premise of a bad novel. Or an actual nightmare. Jean doesn’t even like kids too much, but he’s human enough to feel like he’s going to be sick when Mustang relays the news to the team. Again, Ed and Al are at the centre of it all and Jean kind of wishes he could swoop them both up in his arms and give them a well deserved cuddle.

Then a day passes and once more there are bad news, only this time it’s of Shou Tucker and the chimera’s deaths. And Jean doesn’t know whether to feel like it’s kind of a good thing or bad, because they’ve definitely had worse losses, but it’s still murder, and one of the victims was innocent in all possible ways. A victim twice over really. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth. It’s also made worse, because the two of them were supposed to be under military surveillance, or protection, or whatever, but not even that managed to stop it from happen.

Jean wonders how Ed and Al were told, if they even know of it yet, and makes a promise to himself to take them out for a pleasant, distracting and relaxing meal the next time he runs into the two of them. Or something. Maybe they actually would really like some hugs. Could be that Jean is the one in need of cuddles really. He feels drained and he’s literally only hearing of things from a seat far away.

It’s when he hears of Ed and Al being attacked in Central that he’s had enough. No more excuses to not go out and drink his mind into oblivion and forget everything for a little bit. His mother’s wishes be damned.

At least they’re alive.

He shows up to Mustang after, though he doesn’t remember getting there, only knows that he was at a bar and now he’s here. It takes a while for Mustang to show up at the door, but patient man as he is, Jean just keeps knocking at it and hollering until he’s let in.

“What the fuck,” Mustang says, as Jean almost falls on his face onto his carpet.

“Can I have some water, I think my brain would appreciate some water,” Jean says. It sounds right in his head as he says it, but his lips feel kind of numb and Mustang is frowning at him. He repeats himself just to make sure.

“Why don’t we sit down on the sofa?” Mustang suggests, leading Jean by the arm.

And the sofa really only ever means one thing, or at least it does in Jean’s head. 

“I really don’t think I can get it up,” Jean admits, frowning, because he kind of wishes he could. “I had a little too much to drink.”

Mustang stares at him then, face carefully blank, perfectly disguising his emotions and making it impossible for Jean to read him. They’re only a few steps from the sofa, which looks invitingly soft. Jean would love to sit down in it. He looks back at Mustang, consideringly, and licks at his lips.

“I could suck you off if you want me to, like, if that’s what it takes.”

“Takes to what?” Mustang asks, both looking and sounding exasperated and tired of Jean’s shit. He’s rubbing at his eyes with the hand that isn’t holding Jean up.

“Well, if that’s what it takes to get to stay, I really feel like I should sit down for it though, I’m a bit dizzy.”

“For fuck’s sake.”

Jean lands in the sofa face first. Or it feels like it’s with his face first. It’s soft though, and smells nice and sofa-like. He flops himself around only to see Mustang leaving the room. Sighing, Jean closes his eyes and struggles to kick his boots off. He must nod off, because he wakes from Mustang brushing the hair from his forehead. There’s a glass of water in his hand and Jean suddenly wants to cry, because that’s just fucking nice. Mustang so deserves the best blowjob ever.

“Please sit up so that you can drink this.”

He does, because Jean is great at following Mustang’s orders, all day, every day. The water’s cold, wet and delicious. The best water Jean’s ever had - and Jean’s had water since his birth, so he’s basically an expert at water.

“This is the best water,” he says, because Mustang deserves to know.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” Mustang says, taking the empty glass from him. “Now lie down again, I’ll get you a blanket.”

“I should probably blow you first, I might forget, or fall asleep. One of those.”

“I’ll take a rain check for that one,” Mustang says and kind of looks like he wants to laugh a little. Which is nice, because that means he’s most likely not angry about Jean showing up on his doorstep. “I’m all out of orgasms.”

That doesn’t make sense, but Jean’s not about to force himself on someone who’s said no. That’s really not something he’d ever do. He likes to think of himself as a not awful kind of person. That means listening to people desires and wishes.

“Alright,” Jean nods.

“Great,” Mustang smiles and pushes Jean down to lie on the sofa again. Usually that would make something stir in Jean’s nether regions, but his dick seems to be as drunk and limp as he is. He still pats at himself, to really make sure, as Mustang leaves in the quest to find a blanket. But nope, nothing.

“Feel free to wake me up if you change your mind,” Jean says as Mustang spreads a blanket over him. It’s green and thin, but super soft.

“Definitely,” Mustang agrees as he stands. “I’ll be up in my room, if you want me.”

It sounds funny, like Jean could, at any time, not want him. Well, maybe not right now, but that’s got more to do with the limp dick situation than with Mustang himself. He still hums though, to signal that he heard. Then he curls up and closes his eyes, so so ready for sleep.

He still takes a moment to think about Ed and Al, wonders where they are and if they’re also sleeping right now. Hopes that they’re safe and not in risk of being found by terrifying killers. He also spends a moment to think about his mum. Maybe he really should go home soon, see her and make sure that she’s allowed to hug him for a bit. Surely, if he wants to cuddle and comfort the Elrics, his mother wants to cuddle and comfort him. It would be mean to not allow her the possibility of trying to support and cheer him up. That’s what mothers do, isn’t it?

Jean burrows into the throw pillow under his head and pulls the blanket over his head. Sleep comes easily.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I really don't know guys, but tell me what you thought or something.


	3. The only voice coming back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having further conversations to define what they are only makes it clear to Jean that he needs to get a grip; he can't keep on living the way that he's been living.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School is trying to kill me, I swear.
> 
> Also, I guess this turned into being canon compliant-ish, considering the fact that I made some inconsistent mistakes in the last chapter that don't quite follow through on the whole "this is what happens in the manga/brotherhood". So there's that. I was angry with myself when I realised, believe me.
> 
> Unbeta'd, because that's the life I live.

 

 

Waking up is hell. And sitting up is worse. Paying for the mistakes of yesterday is never a lot of fun, but Jean probably deserves it. No, scratch that, he definitely deserves it. When doesn’t he, really?

He isn’t the one who had an attempt of murder thrust upon him. Is wholly unwounded - other than his splitting head - and stayed unthreatened through the whole ordeal. He has nothing to complain about. Jean is fine. Which makes the drowning himself in alcohol all the more pathetic.

The day’s already there, present, and Jean kind of really doesn’t want to know what time it is or how much of a spectacle he made of himself to Mustang the night before. It’s not that he doesn’t remember anything, it’s all just a bit hazy when it comes to the details. He knows they spoke, but doesn’t know what of. He remembers feeling happy though, for at least a few hours, blissfully lost in the haze of drunkenness. Not untouched by the events of the week, but happily adrift in the moment.

It’s a good thing he doesn’t still live at home; his mum would have his head and cry herself to sleep each and every single night if she knew of his relationship with alcohol. Not because it’s that bad, but because he’s getting there and because she has too many bad memories of drunk men stumbling through all hours of the day. She deserves better than her son turning out to be the same, deserves better than him.

“Morning,” Mustang says, and interrupts Jean in his worsening state of self-pity. He’s standing in the door to the kitchen, in a navy blue robe and a white tee, a cup of coffee in his hand. Or tea. It could be tea.

“Hi,” Jean croaks, then clears his throat, grimacing. “I mean, good morning.”

“Is it?” Mustang asks, with a hint of a smile teasing at his lips. He’s kind of ridiculously beautiful like this, and Jean wonders if it’s always like this, waking up to Mustang. And it’s strange too, thinking of him as beautiful, when that’s an adjective Jean’s always reserved for women, but it’s true nonetheless. Even if it’s a fact that nudges at his precedent standards of beauty. Jean can only imagine what kind of mess he himself looks like. The taste in the back of his mouth is like death, and the unforgiving beating of his head even worse. He’s pretty sure he’s looked better in life than he does now. Pretty sure, as in absolutely certain.

“No, I feel like I’m dying. Can I have some water?” Jean sits up, holding his head in a hand and frowns at the amused smile that breaks out on Mustang’s face.

“Of course,” is all he’s answered with though, which doesn’t explain the smile in the least.

All Jean really wants to do is lie down again, but knows that that’s not really an option. It doesn’t matter how things have changed between him and Mustang. It’s out of the question regardless. He still blinks down at the sofa beneath him though, wishing for a moment he had less rules regarding manners and how to behave.

Mustang returns with both a glass of water and some toast on a plate.

“Should we walk about last night, or would you prefer to have me pretend it didn’t happen?”

Jean drinks some of the water as he contemplates the answer. “I mean, we don’t have to pretend it didn’t happen. But it’d be great if we still don’t talk about it..?”

“…Right,” Mustang nods. He’s sitting on the table in front of Jean, legs crossed, head in his hand and elbow resting on the top of his knee. He looks soft. Approachable. Touchable. “Would you like to talk about this then, you being here?” He asks then, gesturing between the two of them with the hand not holding the weight of his face in its palm.

“What do we need to say about it?” Jean asks in turn, because he really doesn’t have any real answer to give. Doesn’t know how to define them, or if they should. He’s not feeling feelings to start with, other than interest of the sexual kind. Attraction, if you will. But there’s nothing personally connecting them, not a fluttering heartbeat to keep track of. Just plain, heady desire, resting in the pit of his gut. Fuck-buddy sounds too crude though, and Mustang is still his superior. Giving such a term to define them feels morally wrong. Even more so than their actions themselves.

“I mean, I know we said neither of us felt _love_ or whatever, but shouldn’t we have some sort of idea of what’s going on here? If we’re to… _continue_ , maybe some rules to play by, or a set arrangement?”

Arrangement makes it sound like an illicit affair, like infidelity and marriages are at stake, and to Jean’s knowledge, that’s not the case. The idea is laughable at best. Jean can feel himself grimacing, making a face of distaste.

“Are we going to continue?” Jean asks.

Mustang makes a face right back at him. “I’d really like it if I wasn’t the one who had to come up with all of the answers, all you’ve done thus far is push the questions over to me. As for continuing, I’d like to point out that you’re the one who showed up yesterday, unannounced, offering blowjobs and wanting to stay. I’d say the ball is in your hands.”

Oh. Well. Yeah. That does sound a bit like. Yeah. Jean’s too hungover to deal with this right now, but that sounds too much like the truth to be anything but. He’s definitely the one responsible for both yesterday and this morning playing out like this. Also, blowjobs. He’s blushing at the mere idea of him drunkenly propositioning Mustang. He understands it, it’s not something he’s not interested in, but still. Embarrassing. Jean knows he’s not the most smooth when he’s had one too many. And yesterday was a whole lot of one too manys.

Looking up from his hands, Jean sighs. “Let’s be real, I obviously like, uhm, sharing orgasms with you. So, I’m not averse to letting it happen again.”

“Sharing orgasms? Is that what we’re calling it? Just say sex. Plain and good old sex.” Mustang returns to looking amused rather than serious, which is nice, Jean approves of the look. “And I guess I’d say the same. It’s not a necessity, but I wouldn’t mind having more sex. Fucking you. Having intercourse. Coitus. And whatever else synonym there is for it.”

Well obviously Mustang likes to see Jean suffer. He looks smug about it too, as Jean gapes at him in flustered horror. Jean’s not used to this kind of language from Mustang, who’s only ever been professional in his presence, at least word choice wise. 

“Are there more words you’re uncomfortable with? Dick, cock, manhood, erection, shaft? Yes?”

“Please, just stop,” Jean whines, covering his face with his hands, face blushing. “I think it’s more that it’s you saying them than me really having any sort of feeling about the words themselves. You’re not supposed to talk like that.”

“Like what, like I have the vocabulary of the common man?” Mustang laughs. “Or is it the homoerotic context of it? Would you be more comfortable talking about vaginas?”

Mustang is simply a bad bad person, who loves to see others suffer. That’s the only explanation. Jean’s already suffering enough with his hangover, thank you very much. He doesn’t need _more_ suffering.

“I can talk about vaginas if you want me to.”

Glaring, Jean leans forward. “I will stab you.” He doesn’t really have anything within reach that is very stabby, but he’ll make do. Somehow, Jean will make perfect do and shut Mustang’s stupid mouth up for good.

Mustang smirks. “Keep it in your pants.”

 

 

—

 

 

Jean can hardly believe it when he leans forward automatically to kiss Mustang goodbye at the door, which is thankfully still closed. He also can’t believe that Mustang doesn’t stop him, just curls a hand around Jean’s arm, looking smug. Like he loves the fact that Jean doesn’t know how to act around him. It’s a soft and perfectly platonic kiss, until they part for a second and Mustang presses another to the corner of Jean’s mouth at the same time as he slides a hand through the hair at Jean’s neck.

“Feel better,” He says, lips catching on Jean’s chin as he falls back to stand on his feet, rather than on his tippy toes. And like that Jean’s reminded once again about the size difference, about Mustang looking up at him through his lashes. Smug, beautiful and absolutely life-wrecklingly tantalising.

“Yeah,” Jean croaks back in answer and escapes before he stays for another ten hour period of time. 

He could, is the thing. Would, even, if he allowed himself to. Which is dangerous. Neither of them should have to deal with a Jean willing to give up so much time of his life doing nothing but waste away at a silent corner of Mustang’s. Mustang least of all. It’s one thing when Jean has to deal with his own bullshit, he’s not going to saddle anybody else with it.

 

 

—

 

 

So they’re not exclusive. And as much as Jean knows it, and as much as he knows that he’s still going to be looking at the women around him and dream away like he’s always done, it’s weird when he’s faced with the fact that the same goes for Mustang. Maybe because Mustang doesn’t actually voice an interest in other people, that it’s only ever been the rumours surrounding the women he’s seeing. There have always been a lot of those.

It makes Jean blush, because it feels like he’s just another notch in Mustang’s belt. One of the probable hundreds of people Mustang’s slept with and left wanting more. Not _more_ more _,_ only the regular kind of more, where orgasms and attraction are at abundance.

They’re good at not speaking about it, and maybe it has something to do with their military training, maybe it’s the fact that they’re both men and nobody is really expecting any such thing going on behind the curtains. Maybe it’s the fact that the both of them are seen as typical womanisers, though Mustang’s clearly the more formidable kind whereas Jean is more sleazy and unsuccessful. Which is unfair. Jean is plenty a gentleman. But probably not as much as Mustang. It’s hard to be anything close to Mustang when it comes to class. Even when he’s behaving childish or petulant there’s a certain degree of acceptance, only because of his general competence and stature.

Jean’s not charmed. Not. At. All.

He’s also not a blushing teenager with a crush, which is why he’s not waiting by his phone for a call. Jean’s actually getting more done than ever in the office, does more casual patrolling and even joins Hawkeye for a small inspection at one of the offices closer to the border. Consistency in his sex life might be evening out his moods, even if his love life is still just as barren as previously.

 

 

—

 

 

They don’t meet as often as they could have, the first week after their talk. But they’ve both got other things in life, or well, Mustang has other things in life. So it’s not like there are any complaints to be had. Jean’s actually pleased that he gets some breathing room, allowing him to try and get some more order into his life by going to the military’s training facilities. Spending time with Mustang has only reminded him of his own physical shortcomings. There aren’t many per se, Jean’s always had confidence in his body and its abilities to function properly, but Mustang’s ridiculously built for how much time they sit around in offices.

Hitting the gym also makes him sleep better at night, which is even better, because then he won’t be lying awake and thinking about all of the things that have been troubling him as of late. Jean’s not a fan of thinking. Things so easily get too big and difficult in his head. That’s what’s so nice about working in the military over all, even if blindly following orders has never been his thing either. He doesn’t have to look at the big picture, as long as he can trust his leaders to make the right decisions. Lieutenant General Grumman has always been someone Jean’s looked up to, if not on a personal level, then on a professional level. The fact that he’s Hawkeye’s grandfather only further cements Jean’s trust in him.

Admitting to himself that sleeping with Mustang has made him better at functioning is still somewhat a task though.

 

 

—

 

 

“That is quite a frown for someone who’s here to relax” Mustang says, now at home in Jean’s kitchen after only his second time coming around.

“I’m here because I live here,” Jean replies, sitting at his table with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. He’s going to go outside and smoke in a moment. Any moment now. “ _You’re_ here to make both of us relax”.

Gesturing a wooden spoon at Jean’s face, Mustang snorts. “Which is outrageous, I don’t even know why I’m the one stuck reheating your leftovers when I’m the guest!”

“It’s because you made that stupid joke about ‘firing up the forge’, which I’m still not finding very funny, to be honest.”

“That’s just because you were bereft a sense of humour at birth and now make the rest of the world suffer for it,” Mustang mutters under his breath, turning back to the stove and the pot of stew on it. “The way to a man’s heart is through the puns, your defect will leave you wanting.”

Snorting, Jean leans forward in his chair. “I’m hardly looking for a guy to spend the rest of my life with anyway, and if that leaves me with the remaining half of the population available I think I’ll be alright.” It’s not really half of the population, since Jean’s not into kids, the elderly or women who are already taken, but whatever, it’s the principle of the matter.

Mustang pauses at that, because sometimes Jean says things that make actual sense and astonishes people with it. It doesn’t explain the frown Mustang fires at him though, so maybe not. “You’re-“ He starts, licking at his lips - which are very attractive by the way, distractingly so. “Are you really not even going to consider being with a guy? I mean, I know it’s not the general consensus, but you’ve seemed perfectly content spending time with me.”

“Why would I be with a guy when I can just be with a girl and have nobody bat an eye at it? Seems kind of stupid, don’t you think?”

Mustang only blinks at him, face perfectly hiding any kind of emotion, and Jean hates that face. Hates that he doesn’t have his own version of it and hates that he can’t get a grip of what’s going on inside Mustang’s head. “Some people don’t want to be with girls, at all, so putting it like that is offensive in all kinds of ways.”

Jean feels like he’s missing something. “Sure,” He nods, slowly. “But, like, I’m not one of those people, so.” He shrugs, not knowing what it is that Mustang wants to hear. It’s difficult sometimes, wanting to please people and not knowing how to. Jean’s never been good at that, whether they be family members, friends, or romantic interests. These days it seems he can’t even please superiors gone secret lovers. And wow, isn’t that a word. _Lover._ Jean is going to shudder himself to death.

Mustang is frowning again, basically gutting Jean with the dissatisfied purse of his lips, annoyance adamant on his face. Like Jean couldn’t have done a better job of disappointing him. It’s awful and irritating all at once.

“I’m going out to smoke,” Jean bites out, standing up. The early summer evening makes him wish he’d changed out of his uniform already, both humid and warm, but the burn of the smoke in his lungs and the instant hit of nicotine is too alluring to let him move now.

“This will be done in a minute,” Mustang calls from the kitchen, voice barely making it through the almost closed balcony door. Jean doesn’t shout anything back, only sighs, leaning his head back and dragging another long pull on the cigarette. Chest deep. It’s bad how the curl of smoke in his chest feels perfectly at home. He knows it is, but it’s comforting, in its own way.

He barely registers the stomping before the balcony door is pushed open, Mustang coming out to him with a frown on his face. Jean’s about to open his mouth and say something when the cigarette is pulled from his lips and put out with a push to the wall. It’s when Mustang flicks the rest of it over the balcony parapet that Jean manages to find his words.

“Oh, come on! I was-“ He’s silenced by the push of Mustang’s lips against his. The whole of his body shoved into the wall and overwhelmed with the feeling of Mustang pushing into him. He’s got to be tasting like an ash tray, but Mustang still kisses him, pants into his mouth really. His fingers are unforgiving, pulling at the seams of Jean’s control with each pull at Jean’s hair. They’re on fire, both of them. Jean feels like he’s burning from the inside and out, even kisses back, wrapping his arms around Mustang’s back to pull them closer together. They’re both hard, moving with greed against each other, thrusting and gasping in tandem. All in a few seconds. God, they’re a mess.

They’re still on the balcony, however. A realisation that jerks Jean back to the world of the conscious and makes him push Mustang off of him.

“Inside,” He says, demands really, because he is not giving any of his neighbours any kind of show. The minute gasp of Mustang is curious, making Jean want to explore further. “Now,” He adds, voice brusque. Want curls in his lower belly when Mustang backs away from him, makes his hands shake with the force he has to use to control them, have them not pull Mustang back in. He could crash into the crushing power of need Mustang seems to awaken in him, burn and drown at the same time. Be buried and break under the weight of it.

He has to pause himself, breathe, only to clear his head. To make sense of the rumbling emotions within him. It feels violent, like too much.

“The stove,” He says, after a moment that feels like it’s been going on for too long.

“I turned it off,” Mustang rasps, not panting anymore, but also not moving.

“Okay,” Jean says, nodding and closing his eyes. It takes him two steps to meet Mustang’s lips again, lightly, carefully. “Inside.” He says, pulling Mustang with him by the arm.

 

 

—

 

 

Not exclusive means that there’s no point in getting any feelings of attachment, since there’s nothing to take for granted. Not exclusive means that Jean still goes to sleep at night thinking about the inevitability of Mustang finding something, or someone, better or more interesting than he is. It also means that Jean falls asleep alone, with nobody in bed with him to keep his mind off of the deteriorating state of their nation.

Battles break out in Reole, for reasons that Jean doesn’t quite grasp. The Elrics are running amok in Central, for reasons that he does understand, yet disapproves of. Jean’s still of the opinion that they shouldn’t be looking for more trouble, considering the amount that they’ve already gotten into. His opinion doesn’t really matter though, not to anyone, so he’s stuck watching from the sidelines as the world moves on with its crap, shit and disasters.

Working out, running and lifting weights, turns into sweet relief. Time to let the brain turn off and allow the body to sweat its way close to his breaking point. Jean can tell the smoking is holding him back, his breathlessness an annoying setback. It’s not close enough to make him quit though. It’s not that bad, he tells himself and pushes himself further along. The exercise lets him sleep easier at night, has him winking out as soon as his head hits the pillow, which is great. He’s tired of caring and spending his evenings and nights twisting and turning, trying to not think about the things going on.

He also tries to lay off of the alcohol. It really doesn’t do him any good. Going back to drinking only on the weekends is both easy and hard at the same time. Easy because Jean’s made up his mind, but hard because he wishes he was slightly weaker. Realising that he’s yearning for it, for another pint, another shot, is awful. Which makes him exercise even more, overcompensating.

He’s a mess. Maybe he always will be, no matter how much he tries to fix it and adjusts his lifestyle, following different rules he sets up for himself.

Loneliness has never been easy, and as much as he has Breda, Falman and Fuery to laugh with, as much as Hawkeye’s got his back and Mustang can lead and direct him, it’s not enough. It eats at him. He’s caught wanting something serious, yet not wanting it with Mustang. Having someone to stand by him, and to stand by, feeling like he’s got a purpose. To be a pillar and have a home. It’s an idea of wonder. Jean wants to rest at night and feel at peace. Maybe it’s something he tells himself he needs only to want something. To have something to yearn for.

The world still turns.

Ed ends up in the hospital after further adventures in Central and Jean wants to throttle him more than cuddle him. Wants to help him and stop him at the same time. Doesn’t want to feel like he’s accomplishing nothing.

Jean wants so much and feels like he’s getting nothing.

 

 

—

 

 

Falman is the one to end Jean’s involuntary break from dating.

Eve is petite, feminine and sweet. Precisely everything Jean wants in a woman. Or well, not _everything_ everything, but it’s an excellent start and he really likes the first stages of a relationship. The careful prodding and expectant shared smiles. Her hands, nails always painted a soft pink, curving around his elbow and her eyes looking at him in appreciation.

She’s lovely and ends the question of whether Jean’s really been fooling himself all this time. He’s definitely still into women. He knew the possibility of that, of liking both, of liking all. Mustang’s the perfect example of it, what with how him rolling round in the hay with Jean hasn’t stopped him and his casual dating in the least.

It’s still nice knowing it, of having it confirmed. Even if Jean’s been telling himself that’s how it is. He’d hate to not know himself.

Falman introduces Eve to him as a friend of a friend, not expecting them to hit it off as well as they do. It’s obvious by the way his brow lifts by the end of the evening when Eve and Jean leaves the rest of the group for a stroll through the softly lit park. All Jean can do in response is salute and laugh, his arm light around Eve’s shoulders, hugging her small body to the side of his own.

“You are really quite lovely,” she tells him, when they stop by a fountain to sit down. Like she’s surprised to find him so, like Jean’s special for it.

“Why thank you,” he smiles back, and thinks that this must be fate. This is what has been waiting for him around the corner and will make things okay again.

“No really, I know Vato is the perfect example already, but I always find myself surprised when meeting another member of the military that doesn’t seem infected with delusions of grandeur.”

It all only makes Jean’s heart beat faster with shy pride. She’s evidently also well-spoken and brilliant, something that Jean loves in a girl, seeing as it’s something he finds himself lacking. Well, he has his moments of brilliancy surely, but that’s only ever connected to his job.

“Careful, or your compliments will only get me there with a little bit of time,” he answers, cheeks flushed. “And I think _you’re_ wonderful!”

That night, instead of thinking about the rest of the world, Jean’s stuck thinking about what he’s going to say to Mustang. Eve doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would ever expect something casual. Not with the way she smiled, like she’d caught somebody good that she wants to keep to herself.

Jean wonders if he’ll be able to feel the same. Wanting to hold her and keep her.

 

 

—

 

 

They meet up the following few days, taking small breaks from their regular lives to share a little bit of space and time with each other. And it’s easy. It’s nice and pleasant and sweet in a way Jean didn’t really expect. Not from something he himself is involved with.

The idea that they might actually become something teases at his mind, makes him wonder about the possibility of it.

 

 

—

 

 

The speculation ends when Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes is found dead. Discovered dead in a phone booth. Shot dead. The murdered kind of dead. Military man, family man. The kind of man who doesn’t deserve it. The kind of man who deserves it the least.

The way Mustang seems to grit his teeth and keeps his hands clenched makes it seem like there’s something more, something he’s not saying. But nobody says anything about it, and Jean’s stuck wondering if he’s the only one seeing it, wondering.

Jean met Maes Hughes several times during his military career, but feels like he knows more about his wife and daughter than the man himself. Knows about Gracia’s cooking and her way with flowers, remembers details about Elicia teething and learning to crawl. He also knows that he was Mustang’s best friend, his companion during the war and the reason for him smiling when talking on the phone. Nobody ever makes Mustang smile like Hughes.

It’s a loss and yet it’s not. Jean isn’t stabbed with grief, but can read it in the eyes of both Mustang and Hawkeye. Can feel the darkness descending upon their team and feels like he’s stuck in a swamp, sinking down with the rest of them.

Then they have to go; have to be relocated because Mustang wants them along with his new position, wants them and no-one else. Jean mentions Eve, tries to make a joke of it, how he’s finally gotten himself a girlfriend. Nobody laughs. He doesn’t either. The words taste bitter in his mouth, foul, like they never belonged there to start with.

She’s not upset either, is sad, understanding, but not upset. They barely know each other, could have gotten close, definitely, but won’t. Jean doesn’t feel like he’d be able to stand the distance, doesn’t feel like he’d be good enough for her, and she seems to sense it. Sense that there’s something not there in him, marking him unworthy of the effort. It’s both a relief and pain. The fact that she’s not going to fight him, fight the decision to end things. But that’s not the worst of it. It hurts more to know how flimsy that glimpse of an idyllic future really was. To realise that he was fooling himself all along.

It’s probably nothing to the death of a friend though, so Jean doesn’t allow himself to think too much about it. It’s not like it would help, either way.

 

 

—

 

 

“I can’t believe you’re going even farther away,” his mother says, voice despondent over the phone. Like she wants to blame someone, but doesn’t know who. Jean shrugs even if he knows she can’t see it.

“I know,” He says, faking cheer in his voice. It falls a bit flat, but pretending is better than dampening his mother’s spirits further. “But that will make the times we do meet all the sweeter, you know! I’ll soon be home again and bother you!”

“Well, I certainly hope so, things are so quiet around here without you.”

He can’t help but smile a little, for real, at that. “That’s because nothing ever happens out there,  other than the occasional customer in the shop!” It’s the only shop for miles and miles, the neighbouring villages too small to have their own, mostly depending on trading produce and going to his parents’ for the extras. It’s a peaceful place, nice, even if Jean never could quite stand it. It was too much space with too little action.

“Speaking of, I think I have to go,” his mother says, sounding sad about it. “Call us when you’ve packed up your things, you can send some of it over here for safekeeping if you wish to!”

Jean’s home consists of few things that are really his own, the place’s furniture part of what he’s been renting. It’s something the military set up for him, and he will be living in a similar place in Central, small, cramped and impersonal. Void of colour and lacking character. It’s what he’s used to though, so it won’t be hard to adapt to.

He barely registers the knock on his door, but frowns when he does. He isn’t expecting anyone, and everyone who would come knocking are supposed to be home at their own places packing up. Standing up from the box he’s filling with the few cooking utensils and pots that he owns, Jean feels his spine crack. The walk to the door takes some gymnastics, jumping over boxes that really should’ve been stacked on top of each other to keep the space clear.

Jean feels the automatic rise of his eyebrows as much as the goosebumps on his arms as he opens the door. Doesn’t know what to say when Mustang looks back at him with anger. He can tell it’s not directed at him, but doesn’t know what to do with it. He’s hilariously unprepared for dealing with feelings, least of all somebody else’s. His own feelings are enough of a hassle.

He feels underdressed, in sweatpants and a t-shirt, when Mustang’s decked out in his finest uniform and with his hair slicked back instead of unruly. He’s got a bag in his hand too, brown leather, worn at the edges.

“Funeral,” Mustang says, as Jean eyes him up and down, voice tired, like he hasn’t got the energy to put any certain emotion to it. “Can I come inside?”

There’s time and there’s space. Jean still doesn’t know why he’s here though, not really. Standing aside to let him in, Jean finds himself frowning. “That was in Central,” he states.

“Yeah, and now I’m here,” Mustang replies, head downcast as he’s working on unbuttoning his jacket. Then he looks up, like he too realises that that’s not an explanation. “I didn’t want to be alone.”

“Hawkeye-“

“Had to go get Black Hayate from her dog sitter, please let me stay and catch my breath.” Mustang still sounds tired, looks exhausted and angry all at the same time. Frustrated. Jean can feel himself staring, still. Is he messing this up? Is he making things worse? The real question though, tumbling in his head, is what Mustang really wants from him, what he needs.

“Do you-“ Jean starts. He doesn’t know how to finish. It feels almost wrong to presume, yet he doesn’t want to ask either. Jean hates not knowing. Hates the uncertainty washing over him. Feels like he should know what to do, and so he makes a guess and moves.

Hugging isn’t something they do, or something they’ve done, at least. It’s not something that has really been of interest to them. But right now, at this moment, it feels inevitable. Isn’t it wrong to not hug people who are sad? Or emotional? There’s most likely some book or study out there that says it is, Jean’s sure. Still, Mustang is stiff in his arms, like Jean caught him by surprise. Jean’s caught himself by surprise too. He doesn’t let go. It’s quite nice. Hugging. But it’s even better when Mustang finally softens against him, lets his head rest against Jean’s shoulder. His breath is soft against the skin at Jean’s throat. Makes it feel like Jean’s done good. Mustang’s arms find their way around Jean’s waist and keeps them closer, making things feel even better.

“You can stay,” Jean says, like it’s not obvious enough already. It was obvious from the very first step he took towards Mustang, arms moving to hold him.

He moves them, waddles backwards and pulls Mustang with him to his bedroom. Helps Mustang undressing, pulling off stiff fabrics and then folds the bed’s covers back. When they’re both lying down Jean pulls Mustang back into his arms, moulds himself against Mustang’s body. Positions himself so that he’s resting half on top of the other, body a heavy weight on top of him. It’s warm, the season of summer making itself known. Mustang doesn’t complain though, lies still beneath Jean and stares up at the ceiling with a twist to his mouth.

“I’m going to find out who killed him,” he announces. “I’m going to find the one responsible and burn them to a crisp.”

Jean shudders at the harshness of the words, burrowing his face into the pillow Mustang’s head is resting on. He doesn’t know if he should say something, come up with a response. What can he really say to that though, what does he really understand about the situation for a comment of his to be worth the air?

“Someone’s going to pay for his death, and I’m going to be one to wring it out of them.”

Staying silent for another moment, chills rushing down his back, Jean turns his head to look at Mustang.

“You don’t have to,” he says, wondering if what he’s saying is true. Mustang looks back at him then, eyes dark as ever and expression open. The truth is right there in his eyes, making Jean feel a bit sick.

“I want to,” Mustang confirms. “I really, really want to.”

Words are hard. Difficult. And Jean wishes he was talented with them. But he’s not, and he’s getting used to accepting that. Instead of speaking he moves a hand to rest at the hollow of Mustang’s throat. It would be threatening, probably, to somebody else. But it works, Mustang relaxing into it, Jean’s fingers splayed over his skin. He can feel the steady beat of Mustang’s heart underneath the tips of his fingers. Wonders if Mustang can feel his pulse right back, heavy in his chest.

They’re still looking at each other, which should be weird. This whole situation should be weird, really. But it isn’t. And they really should get used to that, shouldn’t they? The fact that they seem to be able to do about anything together without it setting off some sort of internal alarm. Jean’s still learning to relax with the knowledge of it. Mustang on the other hand appears resigned to it, like he’d expected nothing less, and Jean doesn’t know whether to be jealous of that or relieved that he’s not as accepting of such strangely effortless intimacy.

“I appreciate this,” Mustang says, and breaks the silence. He sounds small, beaten. Still tired. The rings under his eyes prominent and dark. He directs a minute smile at Jean, that looks more broken than happy. It’s wrong, it doesn’t belong on a face like Mustang’s, and so Jean leans forward to kiss it away.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter done, which means that's a whole chapter less to agonise over. Awesome!
> 
> Hopefully it made sense to you too, and not only in my head!


	4. The colours that you seek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The move to central is uneventful; Jean's life is too, until it's not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting to think 10 chapters might not be enough... we'll see. Regardless, this is an update, I just hope it's coherent and makes sense, I'm too tired to tell myself tbh.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

 

 

Mustang when asleep is different from Mustang when awake, trying to make the world bend at his will. In relaxed state, the furrow of his brow is at ease, the purse of his mouth slackened. A massive personality reduced to only the softness and pliancy of his sleeping body. It’s kind of adorable, Jean’s not going to lie and say anything but.

The fact that Mustang is lying curled up and turned towards Jean makes everything better; especially the arm slung over Jean’s middle, adding a comforting solidifying weight, both literally and metaphorically. It’s warm though, close to uncomfortably so, but Jean’s too damned pleased with their current positions to really feel the need to move. He doesn’t know how long ago it was that he got a real good cuddle out of anyone. What is a little bit of sweat to the soft caress of human touch. Jean’s not spoilt with it, and so he’s savouring the moment. Then there’s also the fact that Mustang really looked like he needed the break; so what else can Jean do, but play bed warmer and cuddle pillow? He’s certainly had worse duties to carry out, being responsible for his and Mustang’s, suspected, touch starvation is child’s play, a piece of cake. A treat more than anything else, really. Jean likes cuddling. And evidently, so does Mustang, when he’s relaxed and unconscious enough to allow it. Or maybe it’s just that Jean hasn’t been privileged enough to be granted platonic intimacy.

He doesn’t really want to leave the bed at all, but he’s still got packing to finish, and could do with a cup of coffee. Still, he allows a few more minutes to pass, basking in the glory of Mustang being soft and pliant. Relaxed.

When the second bout of knocking on his door of the day occurs Jean furrows his brows. He’s standing in the hallway, on his way to the kitchen and the coffee machine, going over another mental tally of who could be at his door, but still doesn’t come up with a probable answer. There’s only one way to find out.

He’s happy for the shorts and the tee he pulled on, unlocking the door and finding Eve smiling back at him.

“Hello Jean,” she says, offering up a basket of melon and grapes, still smiling. “I was thinking a goodbye was in order, considering the fact that we probably won’t be seeing much of each other in the future.”

Jean nods, flushed with something warm and fuzzy. This whole day has just consisted of him taking care of others and being taken care of in return, a novel kind of feeling. And, it’s not like he can kick her out, not when she comes bearing gifts and offering compassion and understanding. Eve is too perfect for words. Mustang’s probably sleeping too soundly to be bothered by a guest anyway, and there’s no risk of Eve stumbling into him, considering the abysmal odds of her entering Jean’s bedroom.

Jean’s not the kind of person who’d be interested in goodbye fucks, and he suspects she isn’t either.

“Coffee?” He offers, waving her inside with a grin and brushing a hair through his hair, which undoubtedly looks like a mess.

“Sure.” It takes her a moment to follow him, the straps of her sandals a bit intricate, but she moves with certainty for somebody in new territory. She hasn’t been inside his apartment before, what with it being exceedingly boring and impersonal. The amused snort she lets out at the sight of Jean’s kitchen is welcome.

“Oh, come on! I’m working on it,” he says, in way of explanation and opens a cupboard only to realise that both his coffee and his cups have been packed away already. Pausing momentarily he glances at the mess that is his kitchen. “Blue sticker, the one with the blue sticker is what we’re looking for,” he says, gesturing around him, scratching at his head sheepishly. Can only shrug in response when Eve laughs at him, shaking her head. Still, she helps him looking, not even commenting on the messiness of the kitchen.

Finding the cups, the coffee and filters for the coffee machine takes little time, which Jean is happy for. As much as Eve is able to forgive him for, he doesn’t want to test her patience. It’s not like she’d even deserve to have it tested.

“You really ought to be a little more organised than this Jean, it will be a challenge unpacking at your new place otherwise!”

“I swear, you sound just like my-“

He’s interrupted by the sound of a creaking door then, and Jean knows exactly which door it must be, stiffening with the realisation. He barely manages to turn around towards the open kitchen door. The apartment is too small for Jean to have any chance of stopping what’s about to happen.

“You have company?” Eve asks, the exact moment that Mustang stumbles into the kitchen, only Jean’s robe haphazardly tied around him to cover him up. Jean doesn’t know whether to laugh at Mustang’s evident disorientation or shrink into a ball of stress from the open shock on Eve’s face.

They’re all silently staring at each other, Mustang blinking into an awakened state and Jean twitching with discomfort.

“Yes, he does,” Mustang replies, rubbing a hand over his face, extending the other and offering it to Eve. “Nice to meet you, though I’d prefer to have done so under different circumstances.”

It takes a moment for Eve to grasp Mustang’s hand, though it probably has more to do with shock than it does with her being ill-mannered. Is it ill-mannered? It’s not like she’d been prepared for a situation like the one they’re all stuck in. Honestly, her being less than polite is perfectly acceptable right now, Jean’s decided.

“Roy Mustang.”

Eve’s eyes widen at the introduction, because of course she’s heard of him, pretty much the only reason as to why didn’t recognise him to start with is probably his state of undress. Still, she throws a glance Jean’s way, eyes wide in surprise and mouth a perfect little o.

“Nice to meet you,” she responds, weakly, shaking Mustang’s hand. “I’m Eve, Jean’s…” The pause hurts, but the discomfort Jean feels at the confusion of her face is worse. “… his friend.”

“Very happy to hear that he’s managed to find himself one of those, I’ve always thought of him as somewhat unable to exploit his charms.”

What. The. Fuck. That’s just plain rude. Plain unacceptable! That is not the way to speak about somebody who’s been there for you, supporting you. And under Jean’s roof. Dressed in his robe! He will not stand for it, not for one minute.

“Oh my god!” Jean exclaims, hands still shaking with nerves but frustration enough to have him open his mouth in protest. “I will fucking stab you, I swear!”

Somehow, this is what makes Eve part from the momentary speechlessness. Her short, surprised laugh is both welcome and not. Jean doesn’t like the idea of being made fun of, or being the focal point of a joke, but he also doesn’t like Eve not smiling and looking tense.

“I can assure you, Jean’s all talk and no action,” Mustang says then, smirking and leaning back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “He hasn’t done half of the things to me that he’s threatened to - it’s disappointing, really.”

Eyeing him up and down, Eve doesn’t look impressed. “I can’t say I quite believe you, all evidence points to the contrary,” she says, clearly and casually addressing Mustang’s lack of clothing, like they’re discussing the weather. Like she’s running into ex-almost-boyfriends’ male companions every other day. Jean’s going to melt into the floor and be absorbed by the wooden fibres, never to be seen again.

Mustang, the bastard, only smirks.

 

 

—

 

 

“For what it’s worth, I’m not what he’s looking for in a relationship,” Mustang shrugs, sipping on his coffee. He’s sitting on the kitchen counter, still in Jean’s robe, with his legs crossed and expression almost bored.

Wrinkling her nose, Eve grimaces from her spot on the edge of a box. “I don’t think I am either, not really.”

“I’m right here,” Jean states, deadpan. “I can hear every word that you are saying.” Even if he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to be hearing this; it’s too much for his poor heart. He’s not even thirty yet, and still his heart has had enough. His poor mother is going to be crushed by his demise.

“A real enigma, that one,” Mustang goes on, like he can’t hear Jean or his protests.

“He’s kind of adorable though, almost puppy-like,” Eve nods, grinding Jean deeper into his despair.

“I don’t know, he doesn’t feel all that territorial to me.”

 

 

—

 

 

Breda is his next-door neighbour, Falman lives one floor down and Fuery lives two buildings over. There is no way Jean’s ever bringing Mustang to his new place. No chance of it whatsoever. The only saving grace is that the Armstrong’s mansion is situated near the border of the city, too far away for Jean to meet him whilst grocery shopping or going to the postal office to pick up the care packages from his mother. Armstrong is best enjoyed in small doses, and with the certainty that they’ll be meeting lots at work, Jean’s really not interested in seeing any other muscular shirtless bodies other than Roy’s. Roy is more than enough. Even if he can’t come to Jean’s place.

They’ve only been in Central for three days when Mustang invites him over, and it’s funny, how Jean gets that from a look, from the tilt of a chin and the slight rise of two eyebrows.

He’s gotten scarily efficient at reading Mustang’s face, at least when he’s meant to understand. Mustang still hides his emotions behind a veil of pretend indifference most of the time. But that means something too, doesn’t it, that Jean has come to that realisation, can tell when Mustang is faking it, even if he can’t quite tell exactly what he’s hiding.

If he could talk to Breda about it, maybe he could make more sense of it, using the other as a sounding board, but that’s not an option, so Jean simply doesn’t.

He sends a message right back, by scratching at his stubble and with the blink of his eyes. It’s a ‘yes, I’ll be there’, and Mustang of course gets it right away too, ending their non-vocal communication with a pleased turn of the page in the book in front of him. How anyone can turn the page of a book and broadcast _pleased_ with it Jean will never quite get, but Mustang does it and it’s an unquestionable fact. The grass is green. The sky is blue. Mustang is pleased.

Jean’s pleased too, he’ll enjoy an evening, and possibly a morning, with Mustang. Anticipation skitters under his skin, and he can tell from the puzzlement in Falman’s face that he’s not managing to keep it hidden.

“You’re in an awfully good mood?” Falman asks, sounding displeased about it. Most likely, he’s jealous about Jean not being as depressed about their change in location as he is.

“Yeah, what’s up with that Jean, you’re not moping half as much as someone who’s left a girlfriend behind should,” Breda agrees, playing with the buttons of his jacket.

“Or are you trying to make it work despite the distance?” Falman asks then, seemingly cheering up at the thought. He must be closer to Eve than Jean’s previously thought. Feeling slightly guilty, Jean shuffles the papers on his desk around for a bit, not knowing what to say. He should be a bit more upset about Eve, at least outwardly. Jean’s known for moping over girls. He can’t not mope over this girl. Even if they parted on good terms as friends. That’s more than he can say about most girls that he’s dated.

“Eve would hardly suffer such a trial, not for Havoc at least,” Mustang butts in, not looking up from his book. Jean can only roll his eyes and groan inwardly.

“Will you just quit it, she would have totally gone for it, under different circumstances,” Jean argues, leaning back in his chair and narrowing his eyes at Mustang’s almost unnoticeable little smirk. The bastard.

Jean doesn’t take note of the atmosphere in the room until Fuery drops his pencil with a clatter to the floor. Half-confused he watches as Fuery chooses not to pick it up, instead, the smaller man keeps his eyes trained to Mustang. Then Falman clears his throat, looking strained. “You’ve met Eve?” He asks, barely keeping contempt out of his voice, and what? Jean’s not getting this situation at all.

“Different _circumstances_ ,” Breda mouths under his breath, sounding close to horrified.

Judging by the snort, Mustang totally gets what’s going on, unlike Jean. “I have, indeed, met her,” he admits, carefully placing a bookmark in the book before closing it. “How else would I know about her not wanting to, as you put it, ‘make it work despite the distance’? We actually had a long nice discussion about it over coffee.”

They had indeed. In Jean’s kitchen, both of them ridiculously comfortable with each other, somehow. And Jean had been there and suffered through it. Though Mustang doesn’t say as much. Somehow though, Mustang’s words make Falman frown even harder, his mouth a straight line. Like there’s a bad taste that he can’t get rid of.

 

 

—

 

 

“They think I slept with her,” Mustang states, shrugging, like he’s used to people assuming things about him. “Or at the very least took her on a date,” he adds, waving his fork around in the air.

That… makes a whole lot of sense actually. Especially considering Mustang’s ability to charm the pants off of anyone. And wow. The team must really be pitying Jean right now. He must be looking super sad in their eyes. Not that the state of Jean’s love life isn’t sad, but this feels a little too much like sympathy based on misery. The mere idea that the rest of them probably think Jean was given up on instead of being part of the decision to do so, it’s an irritating ache at the depths of his being. 

“Wait, if they think you stole her from under my nose, why the hell wouldn’t you correct them?”

Mustang’s chewing on his pasta, but shrugs before swallowing. “It works in our favour doesn’t it? It’s not even lying at this point, they’re the ones projecting their theories onto us without confirming them.”

“You don’t mind them thinking you stole my girl?” Jean would hate it. Would despise being stuck in such a situation, where the truth is unspeakable and the misinterpretation preferable. Not that he isn’t stuck in it now, but he’s not the one made out to be an asshole.

“S’not the first time it’s happened to me, really,” Mustang takes another bite as he speaks, mumbling with his mouth full. Sounds nonchalant about it all. “And it’s useful, I prefer useful to thwarting. As long as it brings benefits I’m good with the truth not being out there, and the truth is definitely not advantageous to either of our plans for the future.”

“You’re too indifferent about this,” Jean says, not meaning it. It’s useful to him too and they both know that he knows it. 

When they’ve both finished their food they move to Mustang’s bedroom, simply lying down and stretching out on the bed, both of them too full to do anything but relax into the mattress. Again, it’s new, this thing where they simply spend time with each other, lounging in comfortable closeness. It’s nice though. Drains the stress out of Jean’s shoulders the same way exercising does; makes him loosen up and breathe deeper.

They’re definitely still going to get up to something, but where before that felt like a requirement for this thing between them to work, it now feels like a possibility, a choice rather than rule. Which makes it a lot more effortless for the both of them. Allows for a breath when needed, allows them so simply exist unconditionally in the presence of each other.

Mustang’s bed is big, but Jean’s still finding his arm pressed to Mustang’s side, the body heat comforting. The sheets are a soft muted blue, and Jean finds himself wondering if Mustang chose it for the likeness of their uniforms. It’s a silly idea, but Mustang seems like the kind of person to indulge in silly ideas and gimmicks. Rolling, to lie on his side, Jean notices Mustang observing at him with half-closed considering eyes. Too content to ask him about it, Jean only grumbles, closes his own eyes and snuggles closer, Mustang’s arm finding its way over his shoulders. He smells of warmth, of ember and some sweet spice. It has Jean wondering how much he smells of cigarettes and if it allows for any other scent to shine through. Hopefully it’s not too bad. If nothing else, he should at least smell a little of the cologne he put on this morning.

“Are you sniffing me?” Mustang asks with amusement colouring his voice, forcing Jean to look up at him.

“…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jean denies, smiling to himself.

Mustang keeps his eyes locked to Jean, hands brushing along the slope of his back in slow motions. “You’re really quite handsome,” he states, moving his other hand to drag a finger along Jean’s jaw, lifting his chin up with light pressure and touching their mouths together in a soft close-mouthed kiss. Jean smiles into it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, aren’t you the most sought after bachelor of the military?” Jean muses, stretching further to go for a deeper kiss.

“Sure,” Mustang admits easily, because the truth is the truth, and they both know it. “But when it comes to classically handsome, I’d say you’re the winner.”

Humming along the soft skin below Mustang’s ear, Jean protests weakly. “You’re still good-looking.”

“I’m not really up to par, if we were to only go for the beauty standards of this nation. My Xingese ancestry might make me appear more exotic in their eyes, but people generally prefer men who look like you. Tall, fair skinned, refined features.”

“You should stop talking,” Jean mutters, blushing. As much as he likes that Mustang finds him attractive, he’s not entirely comfortable with the reasoning. Isn’t comfortable with the idea of Mustang comparing the two of them and finding himself lacking. Not when he looks the way he does. Not when Jean’s so easily affected and swayed by his smirks and the glint in his eyes.

“You should take your shirt off,” Mustang counters, dragging it up from the tuck in Jean’s pants with the hand near his lower back. Jean shudders with the need in Mustang’s voice, can feel his cock thickening in his pants at the words. Still blushing he sits up to pull the shirt over his head; Mustang puts his hands over him before it’s even fully off, sliding over Jean’s abs and pectorals to curve around his hipbones. “Much better,” he nods, pulling Jean into another kiss, only to move to sucking at his throat instead. Surely biting another mark into the skin.

Sighing with the pleasure of it, Jean starts unbuttoning Mustang’s shirt, at the same time as he toes his own socks off. No one should ever claim that Jean can’t multitask. He doesn’t really think when he pushes his hand down Mustang’s still buttoned pants to grab at his dick. Just feels the need to do so and acts upon it.

“Jean!” Mustang gasps, jerking away, only to move closer half a second after. It’s too tight to really do anything other than hold onto him, putting pressure over his dick and hug it with the palm of his hand.

“Yeah?” Jean grins, enjoying Mustang stiff, unmoving, like he’s not sure what he wants or what to do with the current situation. He slides his thumb over the crown, putting pressure over the slit and when Mustang starts shaking, breath uneven and laboured, Jean bends his thumb, to let the nail scratch against the surface instead of the pad of the finger. Mustang twitches, gasps, grabs hold of Jean’s wrist, like he’s trying to tell him to not stop without having to use his words.

They’re both sweating, Mustang lying against his sheets still almost fully dressed, only his dress shirt undone and flayed open to expose his upper body. Jean leans forward to suck at his chest, nipping into the flesh as he moves his hands as much as the strain of Mustang’s pants allows. It’s not big movements, it’s tiny pushes, more work for his fingers than his arm, as Mustang holds onto him wordlessly. It’s like he’s torn between wanting more and wanting to push Jean away. Like it’s all too much in too little time. 

Jean loves it. Moves his other hand to cup Mustang’s balls through the fabric of his pants, massaging them with slow twists between his fingers.

He doesn’t expect Mustang to come. Still feels it happen, balls tightening, cock jerking underneath the splay of his fingers. Mustang’s eyes blown wide looking back at him, mouth open, like he’s shocked too, like he’s close to screaming but too busy shaking apart with his release.

The room stays silent for a few minutes, Jean pulling his cum sticky hand out of Mustang’s pants with a grimace, arm marked from the waist band with an indented red line. Not caring in the least about it, Jean wipes it off on the leg of Mustang’s pants, before finally unbuttoning Mustang’s pants and rucking them open. Done with that, he then leans back, splaying a hand over Mustang’s abs, to take in the state of the other.

Mustang’s looking at the ceiling. Or, maybe not, it’s more like he’s a little lost to the world. Gone somewhere in his head, leaving Jean to wait for his return.

To say that Jean’s pleased with himself would be an understatement, but he can’t very well brag about it, so he satisfies himself with pressing a kiss to Mustang’s temple and ignoring his own ache for release. It’s not like it’s a requisite for him to enjoy spending time with Mustang.

 

 

—

 

 

He wakes with Mustang’s finger rubbing at one of his nipples, leaning over and looking at Jean with a slanted smile. “As much as I’d love to let you sleep, I think I’m more interested in letting you sleep with me.”

Blinking himself awake, Jean licks at his lips, brain a little too mushy to keep up with Mustang’s words. “You’re wet,” he says, instead of responding to the comment, because Mustang is. His hair is damp and skin glowing.

“I took a shower,” Mustang nods, now pinching Jean’s nipple and forcing a pained grunt out of him, apparently not pleased with his lethargy. He’s naked, Jean realises, as he kicks at him in retribution for the pinching. They both are, even. Blinking down confusedly at himself Jean frowns. He’s sure he was wearing pants when he fell asleep. “You’re a heavy sleeper,” Mustang says, like he can read Jean’s mind.

“Fuck,” Jean groans, gyrating his hips into Mustang, gasping at the slide, his precum sticky between them. When did he get hard?

“You could, I’m _all_ for you fucking me,” Mustang says, between kissing Jean’s mouth and licking at his collarbones, putting a halt to Jean’s brain. Then he curls an arm around him and twists, so that Jean’s lying on top of him, their dicks perfectly and blissfully lined up next to each other. Mustang thrusts up at him, panting. “I’ve thought about it, you know. I’ve more than thought about it, it makes for great incentive.”

Jean buries his head in the groove between Mustang’s jaw and his shoulder, catching his breath, but still twitching minutely in time with Mustang’s torturously slow thrusts. “You’ve jerked off thinking about my dick in you?” He asks, has to ask, because it sounds like something from out of a dream. A filthily gratuitous dream.

Jean can fucking hear the smile on Mustang’s face when he speaks. “I’ve put fingers up my ass pretending it was you, pretending it was enough to keep me satisfied,” Mustang rasps in his ear.

“You’re killing me,” Jean groans, wanting to cover his face with his hands but is too busy holding onto Mustang to do so.

“Fuck me, Jean,” Mustang says in response, like Jean’s declaration of his coming demise is nothing but background noise.

Jean has to sit up to put a stop to it. Looks down in wonder at Mustang, doubting the realness of the situation. It’s too good to be true. He’s been thinking about it. Actually fucking. They haven’t yet. Have satisfied each other with dry humping, blowjobs and jerking each other off. And Jean’s had to ponder alone over it, over the technicalities of it, how to and who to. He’d presumed he’d have to be the one to take it. Has tried to get used to the idea of Mustang thrusting into him, because even if Jean hasn’t been thrilled with expectation he’s been curious about it.

Mustang follows him up into a sitting position, frowning at him.

“You really want me to?” he asks, has to ask, because what if Mustang’s just saying things to turn him on, manipulate him into needy desperation? He can’t help but rub a hand over Mustang’s leg as he speaks, feeling the muscles tense under it.

Sighing deeply, Mustang rolls his eyes at him, looking exasperated despite his nakedness. “I’m literally instructing you to put your dick in me - it’s not that _hard_ ,” he says. Then he snorts and eyes Jean. “Or, I guess I take that last part back, but still, it really isn’t all that big of a challenge.”

Scratching the back of his head awkwardly, Jean tilts his head to the left, consideringly. “I guess,” he says. “So, how do I-“

“Right now?” Mustang interrupts him. “Well, you push me into the bed and put it in.”

Jean frowns then, because he might not have done anything like this before - none of the girls he’s been with have wanted to venture into any such act, nor has he ever really considered it before starting this thing with Mustang either - but he knows that it’s not that easy. “Don’t we need to like, prep you?” he asks, stumbling slightly over the words, despite the fact that he’s sure of it. He _knows_ you don’t fuck somebody in the ass without any sort of preparation.

Sighing again, Mustang falls back to the bed. “I prepped myself in the shower,” he admits to the ceiling, sounding put out. “I thought it’d be a nice surprise but you’re sort of ruining it here with your thoughtfulness.”

Jean chokes. Coughs and splutters. Good god. Mustang really truly will be the death of him.

“You- in the-“ he starts, gaping at the other. He throws a glance between Mustang’s legs, like there’s supposed to be some sort of evident sign there, proof of it being true. He looks up again as Mustang sighs _yet again_. “Trust me, I’m very surprised,” Jean declares, wide-eyed.

“Yeah, I can tell,” Mustang enunciates. “Just not in a sexy way, it’s honestly more embarrassing right now than anything else.”

And yeah, Jean can see the blush flushed down Mustang’s chest. Can tell that he’s mortified by the way he refuses to look at him and the way his hands are kept clenched at his sides. Even his dick has wilted a bit, and isn’t that a tragedy if anything?

“Do you- Should we just forget the whole thing?” Jean asks, unsure.

Groaning, Mustang covers his face with his hands. “You know what, I’m just going to-“ he flops around, to lie on his stomach. “-spread my legs and wait for you get a fucking hint.”

Like this, Jean can definitely tell that Mustang’s prepped himself, and he has to swallow down the embarrassment. He’s really not proving himself much of a lay at this moment.

“C-condom?” he asks, laying a hand on one of Mustang’s butt cheeks.

“Yes please,” Mustang mumbles into the mattress, gesturing with an arm to the bedside table. Jean stumbles to get the drawer open, feeling as far from suave as possible. He’s still hard however, apparently no embarrassment is too much for his dick to lose the interest in Mustang. At least that’s something in his favour at the moment. At least his dick is ready to comply and give Mustang what he’s asking for.

Putting the condom on, Jean shuffles closer, on his knees in the bed. Places his hands on Mustang’s ass and swallows. He’s both ready and not. It feels like he’s got something to prove, except he can’t, because he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Doesn’t know how to make this good, other than for himself.

“Start slow,” Mustang says, spreading his legs further apart, angling his hips slightly to make it easier access for Jean. He’s still not sounding excited, but at least he’s still asking for it. Better than having given up on Jean.

The best he can do is follow Mustang’s instructions, so Jean is careful when moving forward, positioning himself. Can feel the perspiration gathering on his forehead, with both nerves and anticipation.

He’s really about to do it. Fuck a man. Fuck Mustang, who makes it feel like more than that. This is not the kind of man who’d submit to just anyone, Jean’s quite sure of it, flushes with the truth of it. For some reason Mustang is trusting him with this, allowing him to use him, allowing him to give this to him. A deep breath. Two. A hand to steady Mustang, and to keep them anchored, to assure them both. He pushes forward.

Jean’s groaning before even the head of his cock is fully inside, hand on Mustang tightening with the realisation that will be a challenge. It’s tight. Beyond any tightness Jean has experienced before, and he can’t quite believe it, as he moves back to start over again. Going slow will be good for both Mustang and him. Not coming prematurely will take a lot of him.

As he pushes forward again, the rim giving way to allow him entrance, Mustang hums, twitches, and Jean gasps. He’s on fire, his insides twisting with the need to give in and take. But he can’t. Won’t.

“More,” Mustang demands, likely impatient too, because Jean’s barely moving. This can’t be close to enough for him.

“I’m-“

“ _More!_ ”

Shaking slightly with the effort, Jean pushes further, twitches his way inside with stifled groans and closed eyes. The visual too much for him. When he’s finally pressed all the way inside, hips flushed to Mustang’s he stills again, opens his eyes only to both see and feel Mustang moving to jerk himself off slowly, face pressed into the mattress as his breathing goes from calm to laboured.

Entranced with the sight, Jean tries a minute thrust, barely moving back before pushing forward again, and Mustang gasps beneath him, his insides fluttering against Jean. It’s unbelievably good.

“I’m not going to last long,” he admits, trying to figure out which way to bring Mustang as much pleasure as possible.

“I don’t care, as long as you fuck me,” Mustang answers, voice barely strained, then moves the hand he’s kept on his dick to fumble blindly until Jean understands and takes it in his. Unthinkingly it makes him lean forward, changing the angle of his movements, and Mustang bites out a “yes”, moving back to take more of Jean in.

Giving up on control, Jean moves to hold himself over Mustang, a hand on each side of him, one still holding onto Mustang’s and pressing it into the bed with the weight of him. Setting a pace comes easy, moving in time with Mustang’s breaths and the beat of his own heart. Want and need curls in his belly, sparks at his skin with every move.

Jean collapses as he comes with a desperate incoherent gasp, trying to form some word beyond his current ability to do so. Lands with his full weight on Mustang as he twitches with each wave of his release. It crashes through him and has him whining into the skin at Mustang’s neck.

When he comes back to himself, he pulls out, which Mustang protests to with a grunt.

“Sorry,” Jean mumbles, replacing his dick with his fingers, three of them, to make sure it’s enough. Mustang grunts again, but moves back against him again. Jean would give him a hand with his dick too, if not for the fact that he’s wiped. It’s enough of a task for his orgasm-addled brain to wrench gasps out of the other with the movement of his fingers. Mustang still comes, neither of them with a hand on him, Jean’s fingers and the grinding into the sheets evidently enough.

“That was good,” Mustang states after a while, sluggishly twisting himself around and looking Jean in the eyes. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome?” Jean says, pulling a pillow to rest his head on, not really sure that it was good enough to warrant gratitude. It takes him a moment to realise that Mustang’s smiling contentedly at him, but blushes when he does.

 

 

—

 

 

When Jean opens the door he doesn’t give a thought to checking through the window whether the street outside is empty, whether the coast is clear, which is why he opens it only to bump into somebody standing ready to knock at it, fist raised in the air. The surprise is enough for him to push out a “sorry” before even registering that it’s somebody he knows.

It’s when Breda’s eyes widen, twitching to stare at the mark Jean knows is blatantly on show on his throat that Jean lays a hand on the other’s chest to push him out of the way so that he can step out and close the door behind him. He knows what kind of realisation must be finally understood, can see it clearly on Breda’s face that he’s putting all of the needed pieces together.

It’s not only the mark on his throat. It’s the borrowed clothes, the wild hair he hasn’t cared to tame. Jean’s pretty sure he looks exactly like someone who’s spent the past few hours in bed, writhing in pleasure. The only saving grace is that Breda isn’t seeing Mustang too, because Jean’s fully aware of what he looks like right now. Fucked out and messed up. Face and body covered in stubble rash from Jean kissing him all over. Shit. Jean’s beyond happy that Mustang didn’t see him out.

Still. He’s stuck here, facing Breda. Except Jean’s staring at his feet, feeling his head empty of anything to say.

Meeting Breda’s eyes might be one of the hardest things Jean has done in his life. Good god, this was not a situation he’d anticipated. Or, maybe he has, kind of, a little, in the back of his mind. But not today, not this week, even. It’d been a far off concept. Not something to really face and deal with. Except. Apparently now it is.

Breda is still not saying anything, and neither is Jean, who instead pushes a hand through his hair trying to figure out what words could possibly make sense of anything. Of this. Shit.

“You-“ Breda starts, but doesn’t seem to know what he wants to say either. Shit. Shit. Shit. “I can’t believe you-“ He tries instead, cutting himself off with a heavy exhalation.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Jean says, picking out the panic in his own voice. It tastes bitter in his mouth, bitter and sour at the same time. “It’s not- we’re not-“. Shit. Can he really admit to casually fucking his superior? Does that sound better than ‘I’m secretly in love with my superior and wish I could raise defiant little revolutionaries with him’, which wouldn’t be the truth but might sound better than ‘he’s a great lay’ in Breda’s head? Should he fake a romantic interest to preserve some sort of modesty? Is there any modesty to be preserved? Is there any hope of making this sound like a not stupidly ridiculous idea? Jean’s _sweating_. Might throw up actually.

“You’re not what?” Breda asks, still wide-eyed.

There’s something in Jean, curling tighter within him, sitting heavy in his chest and weighing him down. The air feels heavy too, stifling.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, cliffhanger. To quote Jean: You're welcome?
> 
> Also, realistic sex is non-perfect sex, so there's that.


	5. Not scared in the morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world is more fucked than Jean previously thought, and so is he. It's a shitty situation all around, and he sort of wishes he didn't have feelings to wrestle with as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look! This hasn't been abandoned, despite the many weeks since my previous chapter. Happy New Year?
> 
> As always, unbeta'd.

 

 

There’s a file in Breda’s hands, thin, whole in a way that only new ones can be. It’s a case file, black, its sticker and the scratch on it marking it with ‘homicide’. And logically there’s only one file that that can be really, right? No question about it, no doubt. It’s as clear as day, and it twists something in Jean, produces a sharp twinge of pain and has him clenching his fist with it.

Jean has to bite his tongue to not speak on it, to focus on the other problem. The problem of him being found coming out of Mustang’s place looking evidently fucked out. Realistically that should worry him more than the file, but he remembers Roy’s eyes, the pain and determination. It scares him a little, that distinct willingness to do anything for the taste of revenge. Jean hasn’t ever run into that feeling before. Not in himself. Not in others.

It’s funny, somehow, that in less than two seconds he’s feeling worse about Roy’s wish for revenge than for his own involvement with him. He’d laugh, but it’s a shitty situation regardless. There’s no joy to be found in feeling horrible about two things instead of only one.

“Jean?” Breda sounds unsure, like he doesn’t know how to proceed either, and isn’t that predictable a happenstance. The two of them stuck staring at each other in confusion, neither knowing what to say. If not for the discomfort Jean would laugh about it, throw a hand over Breda’s shoulders and steer their conversation elsewhere. As it is though, he’s not sure Breda wouldn’t twist away from the contact. It’s not something they’ve spoken about before; the existence of men sleeping with men and women sleeping with women. It’s not something that’s needed to be acknowledged or considered before. Except now, in this situation where Jean is one of those kinds of people.

Still, the file in Breda’s hands needs to be taken care of, and so Jean takes it from him, letting out a shallow breath. 

“Wait here,” he says, not meeting Breda’s eyes as he opens the door up again to slip inside. He closes it behind him too, needing the barrier as he, grimacing, moves to the bedroom. Roy is still lying in the bed. Sprawled out and beautiful. He looks up in surprise as Jean enters, occupied with staring at his face rather than noticing that there’s a file ready to steal away his attention. Waiting for him to disregard the rest of the word with its presence. 

Jean doesn’t say anything, can’t really find any words within him that will make a difference, and so he just leans forward over the bed to capture Roy’s lips with his. He can’t help himself. Doesn’t know how to keep him from not doing it.

It’s not as soft a kiss as he’d thought it’d be, is demanding if anything. Like Jean wants to distract the other further, drag things out. As much as he wants to be rid of the weight of the file, he doesn’t want to let it go and have it stoke a fire already burning too bright, threatening to swallow everything in its flames. Roy’s cheek is soft under the pads of his fingers, the responding press of his lips pliant. It’s awful and great all at the same time. Something akin to affection blossoms in Jean’s chest.

Still it’s only a kiss, and as much as Roy seems to allow Jean free reigns, Jean can’t drag it out further. Something makes him stop, makes him realise that staying close for longer won’t do. That that way lies only heartache. Jean’s surprised by himself, recognising care where he didn’t think he’d find it. He has to swallow to stop himself from opening his mouth and saying something stupid. Not that his words would matter. It’s all for nothing, inevitability rendering it useless. There is nothing within Roy burning brighter than his need for justice, and isn’t that the way that it’s always been?

He doesn’t look at Roy when handing over the documents, can’t, turns with the same movement that he uses to set them on top of the sheets. Not a word is let out into the air as Jean leaves, only heavy silence fills it, the thickness of it threatening to choke him. Maybe because there are no words to be said, but there’s also the fact that he feels a little like he’s running. Escaping before any damage can be done. It’s fine.

Outside, Breda’s leaning against the wall, frowning at the ground in heavy thought.

“Let’s go,” Jean says, wishing he could just go home and fling himself into bed to sleep. His energy levels suddenly zapped and used up. Breda follows him without comment, like he can tell that Jean isn’t ready to put words to his thoughts, not just yet. Or, he’s just wise enough to realise that it’s not the kind of thing to discuss out on the streets where, evidently, anybody can be listening.

The streets are mostly empty, and the walk is uneventful. Jean’s hands are still sweating where he’s keeping them in the pockets of his pants. They’re clenched too, which might be the reason. All of him emulates the stiffness of a board, yet he’s slouching, tired of everything and most of all himself. It’s a contradictory way to carry himself, but Jean’s always been good at making the worst of a bad situation. Has an immaculate talent for recognising terror within himself and letting it run amok.

Perhaps the one good thing right now is that they live in the same building. If they go to Jean’s Breda will always have his place next-doors to flee to, and if they go to Breda’s Jean won’t have to suffer too much pain when he’s inevitably thrown out. He takes two steps a time up the stairs. They live three flights up, and it leaves him winded, his regular visits to the gym in spite. It allows him half a minute before Breda’s caught up outside their doors, raising an eyebrow at Jean’s crumpled form on the floor. He’s still panting.

“Are you okay?” he asks, because Breda is a polite person when he wants to be, which is often, but mostly not when Jean’s involved. Is that a sign? Is his sudden politeness a sudden way for him to distance himself? Is this the moment where their friendship breaks?

“I don’t know,” Jean answers truthfully, since he kind of owes him as much, gulping down air and the ill feeling of misery. The words twist in his guts, the honesty a burning acid melting his insides. Jean covers his face with his hands and takes a deep breath. It’s shaky. Weak. It’s so much more than he ever wanted to admit to anyone, least of all himself.

They go for Breda’s apartment, and maybe that’s for the best. For Jean not to sink down into his own furniture never to rise again. He might need the stiffness of sitting in somebody else’s space. It doesn’t change much however, Jean collapses into one of the two armchairs with a heavy sigh regardless, still not knowing how to speak a word about what’s going on.

“Are you, like, together?” Breda asks, also sitting down. “Is that a thing?”

If not for the heaviness in his body, Jean would laugh. That’s how absurd of an idea it is. No matter what feelings Jean might have discovered, the mere notion of doing anything about those feelings? It’s a no-brainer. Not only does Jean feel entirely uncomfortable with the idea of romancing Roy, but he’s also entirely certain that Roy would shoot him down in no time at all. His whole life is built upon the notion that nobody wants him. That’s Jean’s lot in life. And this past year has done nothing to change his understanding of this destiny. He’s having a hard time of even accepting himself, how can he expect somebody else to?

“We’re not,” he says, smiles despite himself, even if it hurts a little and he might be tired of pretending. “It’s just a thing that happened.”

“A thing or multiple things, because I feel like I’ve stumbled upon something big here..?”

Breda’s looking at him calmly, sitting comfortably in the other armchair. He doesn’t look all that shocked anymore, only contemplative and like he’s thinking way too hard about a situation that to Jean feels kind of obviously simple.

He and Roy are only two people who happened to stumble into bed together. Regardless of how society looks at it, it’s not that unusual a thing. If Breda’s having a problem with the nature of their ‘arrangement’, then it shouldn’t be something he’d be thinking hard about, he’d throw Jean out nose first. It doesn’t make sense, calling it ‘big’, simply. Even if Jean feels like he could lie back and think about his issues for hours, it’s not that difficult a thing to understand. The situation is easy to grasp.

“I guess you could say it’s big? It depends on what you mean though? He’s my superior, and obviously that’s not ideal, but the whole thing where we’re both two men makes it more difficult?” Jean’s voice sounds a bit wobbly, even to his own ears. “It’s not that big a deal though, it shouldn’t be, I mean. It’s a thing that happened. For some reason. It’s not something that we’ve talked about, but I don’t think either of us really expected it to happen  a-and- it’s-” He gasps, seemingly having forgotten to breathe. Closes his eyes and leans his head forward, resting his chin on his chest. Can’t possibly face Breda with the prickle of tears in his eyes.

His throat feels thick, unforgivingly so when he swallows trying to make space for air. Sitting curled up isn’t helping. He sits up slowly, straightens out his back, chest heavy and head dizzy. He still can’t breathe properly, feels panic rising and a cold sweat break out. The room feeling smaller by the second. He’s trembling with tension. It feels like he’s grasping for straws, trying to make sense a world rapidly falling to pieces and crushing him.

Even with his eyes tightly shut he can’t help but put his hands over them as well, rubbing into his face as he panics. Such a typical thing. Typical of him. Pathetic.

“Calm down Jean!” Breda shouts in his ear, with the voice of somebody who’s had to repeat themselves multiple times. And maybe it’s not a shout, maybe that’s just Jean’s brain messing with him, because Breda looks calm and when he speaks again he sounds collected and his voice is steady. A cliff in the storm. “It’s fine, just listen to me and my voice and take it easy.”

“I’m fine,” Jean says, weakly, trying to believe in it himself. It sounds like a lie, feels like a lie, even tastes like a lie, bitter on his tongue. His hands are shaking as he twists them into the fabric of his pants, needing something to physically hold on to.

It’s first when he’s back in his own apartment, staring up at the ceiling in the grey dark of evening that he finally finds enough peace in himself to relax. He feels a bit empty, yet stretched thin. Filled to the brim with something damp and cold. So maybe not empty at all, perhaps only too worn to feel anything at all.

It all needs to end and Jean can only think of one way to make a real difference. He makes the decision despite the breath stealing heaviness of his chest at the mere thought. But it needs to end.

And it’s not like he cares anyway.

 

 

—

 

 

They catch a murderer. Not the one they wanted to catch, but a murderer none-the-less.

If not for the fact that this man was caught before, and according to the records put on the death-row and disposed of, Jean would feel proud of their effort. As is, he once more has to clench his fists in quiet anger and wonder what the fuck is going on in this country that allows so many awful things to happen. Are they all doomed to constant endless suffering?

Jean avoids looking too long in Roy’s direction and ignores the way Breda frowns at him.

 

 

—

 

 

She looks _good,_ and no matter how much Jean wishes he didn’t care about such things, he does. He most certainly undoubtedly does. And maybe his current state of mind makes the decision even easier, but had Jean not started anything with Roy at all, he’s pretty sure he’d be head over heels.

Her whole form is breathtakingly stunning, the demure looks, the curve of her smile and the gentle yet generous slopes of her body. Add the fact that she seems _interested_ in Jean, and it’s basically like a lottery win. He can feel it in the looks of the men around them, the quiet wonder of how. Can only present his name in quiet wonder as she walks up to him. He hasn’t got a clue what makes him special enough to warrant Solaris attention, but nobody will find him complaining about it.

It’s late, but not too late, in a bar that Jean’s visiting for the first time, wanting to escape the loneliness of his own apartment for at least a little while. He wasn’t expecting to actually spend time with anyone, wanted the rowdy place to lull him into some sense of calm. Yet here she is, leaning against the counter next to him with the promise of affection in her eyes.

He stutters out a yes when she asks him out, blushing from the pleasant surprise of it. He’s so rarely approached by women interested in him. It might have more to do with the fact that Jean’s been quite active in the role of the pursuer and hasn’t given the ladies many chances to be the ones in charge.

She’s like a sun, warming his cold husk of a body, reaching out to give him life.

He tells Breda about her, loudly, the very next day at work. And if anyone else happens to overhear? Whatever.

 

 

—

 

 

Barry the Chopper is not what Jean expects. He’s not sure what he expected, not really, but to form any kind of camaraderie was never part of it. Yet it’s there, in comfortably easy shared laughs and the exquisite opportunity to tease Falman. He can’t help but wonder what that makes him; how fucked up does a person have to be to be considered broken beyond help? And has he been this way since the war and simply not realised or is this just the darkness within slowly drowning him and filling him with darkness.

To make things worse, he’s not alone in the almost-affection. Barry proves to appreciate him right back by persistently jabbing at him with a lilting smile in his voice. How an armour can sound like it’s smiling Jean doesn’t know, but Alphonse Elric also manages it, so it’s not something new. In the voice of Barry though? It’s horrible and gross and Jean feels sick with it, even as he smiles right back despite the disgust rooting inside of him.

It would feel better if Falman was a bit cooler with it, if he was acting the same way, but he seems continuously creeped out. Even if they all know the younger Elric brother. The status of Barry being a killer is what’s making it feel off with Jean too though. Al too sweet to compare the two, too human to make them similar.

 

 

—

 

 

Almost swallowing down a burning cigarette is not an experience Jean would recommend. The burn of it at his lips has him curse, even as he focuses in on the article that’s what caused his violently harsh inhale. Now, Jean doesn’t know a whole lot of people in Central, hasn’t been here long enough for any relations other than the ones brought from East City to matter to him. But he’s met Maria Ross, has greeted her in passing and appreciated her calm and pleasant demeanour.

He doesn’t know her, and he should be used by now to hear about heinous crimes and the unsuspected perpetrators who commit them. It rubs him wrong, and he has to force himself to not react to the people he passes with their own copies of the day’s newspaper. Hughes was liked, even if he tired everyone out with the constant chatter about his family, so it goes without saying that all are excited about the prospect of finding the one guilty for his death. Jean moves a little faster.

Maria Ross is innocent. Or, at least that’s what Roy is considering and operating by. Jean would have a hard time believing her to be guilty even without Roy voicing his suspicions of foul play. He’s not going to voice these suspicions though, it’s not his place, and he doesn’t know. That Roy has come to similar conclusions is good enough, both for Ross’ fate and Jean’s confidence in his own thought process.

A plan to break her out is made, that has Breda packing a bag and Jean grimacing at the prospect of smuggling her away undetected. 

 

 

—

 

 

The waiting has always been the worst bit. With his whole body tense with nerves, then relaxed in forced calmness, because as much as he needs to be ready, he also needs to be centred and composed. It’s a battle, a constant back and forth between two states of being. In silence, the quiet a heavy load hanging over him. As minutes pass and the watch on his wrist ticks away. The summer heat is unforgiving in this small corner of the building. His back is covered in sweat, his brows catching the drops from his hairline. He doesn’t want to think about the body lying next to him. The body that isn’t a body. Skin stretched out, smoothly unnatural, over a frame too thin, alien.

It can’t have been fifteen minutes yet, but fifteen minutes in tense stillness always feels like eternity. At least he’s not waiting for an ambush, or waiting for a signal to kill. This time he’s playing the rescuer; a role he’s been far from too many times in his military career.

Not only does the team need to stay on top of this either, but they’re to trust that a convicted serial killer will do his honourable part. Tied to an armour the same way the youngest Elric brother is and so much more dangerous for it, yet they’re all putting the same kind of faith in him as they do the rest of the involved parties.

Barry has nothing to lose and Jean’s stuck with the rest of them; ready and willing to pay the price.

It all works out though, with Ross silently crawling behind him as they move into the building. Accepting the hooded cape he hands her with a grim face. They have to move fast, silently, and remain undetected. Breda waiting for them where Jean’s part of the mission is over.

“Good luck, Lieutenant,” he says, when they part, knowing there aren’t words enough. Can hardly accept the thanks she gives him when all he’s done is follow orders. It doesn’t feel deserving. He can only smile, hand on her shoulder. One soldier to another.

 

 

—

 

 

It feels strange to move around Central without bumping into Breda anywhere. Because as much as Jean didn’t expect it, Breda hasn’t given him any grief about the whole discovery bit. Hasn’t shown anything resembling disgust or distaste. If not for the fact that Jean is doing everything to avoid Roy, at the same time as he’s trying not to make it a noticeable undertaking, he’d probably be talking about it with Breda. It feels too nice to deny it all though, even to himself, as much as he dares to. Denial lies close to Jean’s heart. Feels like an easy cloak to pull on and hide beneath. Moving to avoid everything that risks disturbing the semblance of peace.

Making plans with Solaris is easy, lets him breathe. She doesn’t say too much about herself, and Jean appreciates it in ways he’d never expected. Without the information shared, there’s no guilt in not remembering, in making mistakes or forgetting. There are no expectations to weigh him down, just her gentle smiles and soft inquires of how his days have been.

“I can’t,” he says, and stuns himself with the realisation that he’s never denied Roy anything ever. “I’ve got plans,” he has to add, because it feels like an explanation is needed to make sense of it, maybe even more for himself than for Roy.

Roy for his part doesn’t look all that surprised, only frowns back at him and nods in a way that tells Jean that he’s not taking it to heart. That it hardly matters at all. Or, that could be Jean projecting, his heart has been known to act stupidly, and he wouldn’t put it past himself to read matter into situations that are of no importance.

“Are you okay, Havoc?” He’s asked. And Jean has to snort, because Roy asking that, with rings under his eyes and anger hidden away under his skin, it’s ridiculous. Jean might not be at his best, but he’s faring much better than Roy is. Regardless of the ways that his heart beats a little faster in panic whenever he’s faced with his reflection in the mirror.

“Sure,” Jean nods, refusing to speak more on the matter. It’s not important, not when they’re waddling right in the middle of conspiracies and collusions, working hard just to stay afloat. Work will always be the number one priority, because anything else renders it useless. They don’t have time to dilly-dally and let emotions get in the way. Jean refuses it. Pushes down hard on the things within him that makes work unbearable and strides on.

 

 

—

 

 

That’s not to say that Jean has a lot of strength within. He’s weak-minded and weak-willed. Him finding his way back to Roy’s was only a matter of time. He’s been known to do stupid things when his feelings are involved, and his feelings about Roy are no exception to the rule. Whatever those feelings are. Jean’s not willing to think about them too much and explore, it’s enough of a burden to know that they’re there, weighing him down.

His inner turmoil is easy to ignore when he can fall into bed with Roy instead. Explore other things instead.

“I don’t mind a bit of pain,” Roy admits, as Jean works his way down the buttons of his shirt. The statement hinting at, underlining, the fact that he prefers it at times; it’s clear in his voice, the tilted meaning embedded in it. Jean has to blink a few times to really absorb the meaning of the words. Stuck with his lips brushing against the skin of Roy’s chest, his breath hot against hotter skin.

“I kind of figured,” Jean says, leaning back, thinking back to their previous dalliances in rough sex and the dark of Roy’s eyes when Jean pushes his buttons. “Actually even acted on the presumption, I- we should have talked about it.”

They really should have, but Jean forgets to be gentle when Roy eggs him on, forgets everything about etiquette and leaves cautiousness behind. It’s a blessing and a curse, because as much as Jean enjoys himself, he knows that communication is key. That he’s even excusing it is problem enough.

“We’re talking now,” Roy shrugs as he says it, brushing his hands over Jean’s bare arms, taking hold. “I like talking about it too.” He looks tired, even with the blush of arousal dusted over his cheeks. His words mean something that Jean doesn’t quite grasp though.

“What do you mean?”

Smirking, because of course the bastard does, Roy wiggles his toes against the bare skin of Jean’s thigh. “You always get so flustered, and embarrassed. It’s gratifying, getting those reactions out of you, knowing that I’ve hit a nerve.”

“I thought I drove you mad half the time,” Jean states, swallowing. And it’s typical, that he _is_ getting embarrassed now, unable to look up into Roy’s eyes. But maybe he likes it too, feeling a bit nervous and unsettled, his cock thickening further between his thighs is definitely a clue. At least he’s still wearing his boxers, maybe Roy won’t notice.

“It’s its own kind of foreplay, is it not?” Roy shrugs, moving a hand to rest on top of Jean’s thigh, a little too close to his crotch for it not to bring heat down his nerves. Jean’s willing to bet he’s noticed.

“So, making me embarrassed and experiencing pain gets you going? I mean, I knew you were fucked up-“ Jean starts, but is interrupted by Roy pressing his hands over his mouth, pushing him enough to have him tip over onto his back.

“Hush,” he says. “If you don’t have anything of import to say, you should let me do the talking.” Roy is covering him now, hovering above. The open shirt showcasing his flushed chest and rippling muscles. Jean is so weak, feels himself giving in so easily.

“You’re the idiot who brought talking up,” Jean protests weakly, as Roy leans in to kiss him, grabs at his ass as he grinds down, shuddering with ripples of pleasure.

Leaning in, cheek to cheek, lips brushing against Jean’s ear, Roy speaks. “If I ever do something you do not want, I want you to stop me.” He punctuates the words with a slow twist of his hips, nails lightly scratching down Jean’s chest. “And if there is ever a thing you want me doing, I want you to tell me; I am open for suggestions.”

“Likewise,” Jean pants, pressing his eyes closed as Roy sucks a mark into his throat. “I’m thinking most things are great, when it comes to sex and you,” he admits, a little too close to the truth than he’s necessarily comfortable with. But it earns him a hand down his boxers, so perhaps he’s kind of fine with it in the heat of the moment. Jean’s fine with a lot of things momentarily, but less so in the long run.

“Well, aren’t you a charmer.”

After a mind numbing climax, Jean fucks Roy with his fingers, teeth digging into the skin of his hips, until Roy’s a gasping blubbering mess, twisting away more than moving into it. When he comes it’s with a loud whine, cock spurting all over his stomach and the underside of Jean’s chin. Jean’s heart swells, even as he grimaces and wipes himself off with a damp towel, trying to ignore the smug pleased smile across Roy’s stupid face.

 

 

—

 

 

Jean feels like shit when he leaves. The satisfied ache and exhaustion of a body well-spent not enough to ground his thoughts. He musters a weak goodbye before removing himself from the premises. He’s not sure Roy heard, could be that he was dozing. Jean doesn’t hear a response, nor does he wait for one. Can’t wait for it, for his own sake.

Meeting Solaris the very same evening doesn’t make things better. The make-up on his throat a sticky residue of regret. Is he two-timing now? Is he somehow cheating on Solaris by having been with Roy? Is he somehow nudging at the lines by which he and Roy move? He’s never cheated before, not to his knowledge. Has chatted up others that have been in relationships without knowing so, but always stopped when he found out, regardless of whether it was by a fist in his face or a simple explanation. It doesn’t matter that he’s not sure either, because he still feels sick from the situation he’s put himself in. If nothing else, he ought to trust that at least.

“Are you okay?” She asks, like a mindreader. The calm of her face doing nothing to ease the heaviness in Jean’s gut.

“I could be better,” he smiles back, nauseated by the fake cheer in his voice. “Some trouble with a superior that’s all,” he admits, and it’s not even a lie. So perfectly true that it aches within him. He’s in deep shit and burrowing deeper.

“Oh?” Solaris looks curious, then abashed, like she knows better than to pry. So pretty and unsuspecting of Jean’s real issues. “Not something too serious, I hope?” She asks, looking at him through her eyelashes, arm stretching out for her to hold his hand. The touch is soft, her nails well cared for, painted a muted pink. Dainty against his rough skin.

“It’ll probably be fine, nothing to worry about,” Jean lies through his teeth, letting his thumb caress her knuckles. “Nothing I want you worrying about at least.”

She laughs lightly, shyly. “I’ve always been a worrier, I’m afraid,” she admits, leaning forward to sip at the straw of her drink. Her eyes never leave him, watches him constantly. Patient, calmly. 

 

 

—

 

 

“No marks,” he admonishes and earns himself a brief pause in the assault on his senses. It might be too late, could be that he’s already been marked up. The skin of his throat tingles, feels cold with the damp of saliva.

They’re so fucking stupid. Unbelievably idiotically unintelligent. Still, it’s not like they can stop now; the fastest way to get rid of the boners is orgasms, so even if they’re doing this in a supply closet near the archives, the smartest thing _now_ is release. Jean’s straining against the cotton of his clothes, so it probably won’t take too much.

“I didn’t have any marks going in this morning, like hell am I going to explain a new one when we get back to the others,” he explains, digging his fingers into Roy’s hair and pushing his head away, forcing eye-contact. “Even with all your blood heading south, you’re not that stupid.”

Eyes blown wide, lips bitten red and swollen, Roy stares back at him. “I’m going to blow you,” he decides aloud, dropping to his knees before Jean has any chance to respond. He’s a dream and a nightmare all at once. Jean doesn’t know whether to curse at or thank him. 

“Blow my mind, I think you mean,” Jean mutters to himself, in the small pause given as Roy works his pants open, hands combing through Roy’s hair encouragingly, thankfully, lovingly.

Jean is so fucked, both literally and metaphorically. How is he ever going to function without Roy torturing him with his presence? He groans when Roy gets his mouth on him, sagging against the wall, toes curling up in his boots. It’s a good think the archives are mostly empty during lunch hours, Jean can only hope that they remain so the few more minutes they’re going to spend here.

 

 

—

 

 

Hawkeye knows. It dawns on Jean like a sledgehammer to his head, brutal and unavoidable. It turns his insides into mush. It makes him want to throw up and run in the opposite direction. He stays though, meets her knowing eyes as he sits down for a small briefing and curls his shaking hands into fists underneath the table.

They’re in the small backroom of an unkempt, sort of sketchy, café, just Roy and his closest, to be able to talk about all of the strange things that they’re all taking note of. It’s necessary also because of the fact that Hawkeye has publicly shown dissatisfaction with her superior. They’re not supposed to be in much contact at the moment.

Knowing Roy, he probably knows that Hawkeye knows; thicker than thieves as they are. Jean would have thought them a possible couple if not for Hawkeye’s complete disinterest in anything romantic. Their platonic friendship is deep however, close to sibling levels of intimacy, and so Jean knows that there’s no way that Hawkeye wouldn’t bring it up as soon as she figured it out. Or was told, that’s also a possibility; Roy sharing a small insignificant part of his life in passing. 

The question is whether Roy will find out that Jean knows about Hawkeye knowing, and whether that will make any sort of difference.

They’re not telling people, Roy and him, have done their best to keep it a secret. Except obviously their best hasn’t been too effective. What with the constant risk of being discovered and the times that they have been. Three people are aware of it now, in the know. Two of whom are coworkers and both of them subordinates to Roy.

Jean trusts all of them not to spread any rumours; surprises himself with this fact. But that doesn’t mean he’s comfortable with them knowing. Doesn’t mean he’s okay with the status quo. It only brings more tension to an already tense situation.

Should he talk to Roy about it?

 

 

—

 

 

Teaming up with Barry once again feels like it’s coming close to second nature. Jean’s sweating under the cover of his mask as he moves with purpose to try and help Falman and Barry both. There’s a certain ease to it, knowing that he’s doing everything he can, especially with the knowledge that Hawkeye too is at hand, watching their backs.

To learn that the attacker in a way is Barry, forces a gasp out of Jean even as he backs off carefully two steps to reevaluate. There’s no end to the surprises it seems, as Barry follows up with a laugh and the voiced interest of cutting himself into pieces. 

Good god, the world will never cease being fucked up and beyond help, will it?

It proves to be hard work, Barry’s body nothing but irrational movement and no logic. Then Hawkeye runs into trouble; Jean doesn’t know how, but the lack of sniper shots is evidence enough. He bites back a curse, reloading, when Barry’s body starts moving away from them instead of attacking further. It’s typical, just typical.

“Lock up, then we’re moving,” he orders Falman, shoving his gun back in its holster. Pulling it out again will be quick work, Jean’s good at least with that.

It’s all happening fast, one moment it’s Barry, Falman and Jean working as a unit, then they’re meeting Roy and Hawkeye only to invite Alphonse Elric to the party as well. At least they’ll have a lot of fire power, even if they’re too many to move with discretion. Firepower seems like something to prioritise anyway, evidently they’re not good enough to beat anyone without working together, their enemies strong.

Jean looks out the window as they drive off, doing their best to keep up with Barry’s body.

Now, Jean’s always been one to appreciate information on enemies, to know what he’s up against, but when Roy swerves the car in shock from Al’s words he can’t help but feel like maybe this time he doesn’t appreciate the information given. Unimaginable regenerative abilities and superior strength. Blown off heads and falls from towers. If it’s awful enough for Roy to react, then they’re fighting an uphill battle with rollerblades and soap bubbles. With Hawkeye believing it? Yeah, they’re fucked.

A shitty situation can always get worse it seems like, though Jean already knew that. He takes a deep breath, centres himself and shakes his hands out.

He’s always been just human. Even up against alchemists. An uphill battle is the story of his life and he’s getting used to it by now. It’ll be fine. It’ll have to be.

 

 

—

 

 

“We’re going to have to split up,” Roy says, frown on his face and danger in his voice, and Jean can only nod in agreement and follow him down the dark corridor. The beat of his heart loud in his ears as he tries to focus on the gun in his hands and the movement of the man in front of him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hah, look at me crudely stitching this into something of a story. Hope you enjoyed the chapter regardless!
> 
> Also, hey another cliffhanger, except if you've read the manga or seen the anime you know what's going down so meh. It's emotional stuff more than cliffhangery, I'd say.


	6. Red like fire, red like blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy and Jean face down someone unexpected. Jean is surprised, hurt and then wounded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know medical things, but I do know pain. So there's that. And yay, update!
> 
> Non beta'd (as always)!

 

 

The place is a mess, but whether it’s the time of negligence or the stink of violence and horror that makes it so is a mystery. It doesn’t matter. Still, Jean can’t help but shudder at the darker stains on the floor and the dented walls. The sound of their steps as they move forward is too loud in the silence. The quiet heavy in the air. Jean pulls off his mask at the realisation that with Roy here there’s no point in hiding behind it. Anonymity only matters when your identity is safe from being figured out, or when there’s people present to figuring it out. Here, if there is anyone around, the mask doesn’t matter any more, with Roy’s presence mattering more than Jean’s.

He isn’t sure whether he prefers the mask filtering the stale air or the unrestricted feel of his bared face. Lighting a cigarette would be great, in theory, both to mask the stench of the filth surrounding them, and to calm his nerves a little. But it’s also an incredibly stupid idea, so Jean files it away for later with a sigh and frowns at the first door openings coming up.

“It’s almost like a prison,” he states, quietly, shoving his mask in the back pocket of his pants. He doesn’t look at Roy, but can tell they’re moving in unison towards the same door opening. Used to each other and working as a team. If there is one thing that Roy’s team’s got down, it’s understanding each other with the littlest amount of communication needed. And so, they enter together, side by side, Roy talking in a sombre tone as they take in their surroundings. Jean barely manages to listen, too busy taking in what can only be the filthy remains of some sort of lab animal. At least he hopes it’s the remains of an animal. It’s not bloody, more of a dry shrivelled up husk of some former being. Dust coats everything, the air dry and stale. He turns to Roy to speak only to be interrupted.

“My, not only did they fail to finish you off, but they let you come all this way, making a further mess of things!”

Jean doesn’t think when he moves to raise his gun and aim it at the speaker; it’s all ingrained reflex, moving with smooth turns and slowing with steady precision. It’s is why he manages at all, the mechanicalness of his manoeuvres and non-thinking aspects of reacting, because as soon as his eyes land on her and he understands just why the voice registered as something familiar he stalls. As he already has his gun pointing in the right direction it’s not noticeable, probably, but he cold dread washing over Jean has him frozen.

“I guess we underestimated you, but I have to say I’m disappointed,” she says, smiling as she eyes the gun Jean has trained to her. Looking amused more than worried. “I thought we had something, Jean.”

“Solaris?” Jean gets out, hating the confusion in his voice, completely at odds with the playful disappointment in hers. “What are you doing here?” He asks, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Can tell without needing to think too hard about it that things have taken a turn for worse. That Solaris here, smiling like that, can only mean something bad. He can tell from the twist in his gut that he doesn’t actually want an answer, wants to not be here. Perspiration breaks out over his forehead, from confused discomfort.

“You know her?” Mustang bites out, and Jean can’t really speak, busily staring at the woman in front of them and trying to make sense of the situation at hand, but thinks to himself that the answer must be _no, not at all, apparently_.

There’s a red mark on her chest, perfectly visible with the generous cut of her dress. Was that the- what had they called it? Ouroboros tattoo?

The shade of crimson is bright against her pale skin, and Jean can’t help the blush of humiliation rushing forth. To think that he thought that a girl like her would be interested in a guy like him. Not that she is a girl, not in the ways that actually matter to Jean. But that should have been a clue, the fact that it seemed too good to be true. He should have guessed and understood that it wasn’t something that would happen to a guy like him. Humanity had been a good look for her, even if it was faked; now she looks steely cold, like she’ll sooner bite his fingers off than reach for them. Nothing human to her other than the form she’s taken.

“Well, Jean and I _are_ dating,” Solaris shrugs, still smiling at the two of them, answering Roy’s question. Her words clawing at Jean’s insides like piercing knifes. “Sorry about deceiving you, but I was too interested in the kind of information you could give me.” 

“Let me guess, it was the boobs?” Roy asks, sounding cold. Somehow managing to make light of a situation too serious for Jean to handle.

“Yeah, sure,” Jean responds, clenching his fists on the gun to not let it shake from his grip. “Can’t help liking them big,” he continues, eyes unable to stop flickering between the daunting mark on her chest and the untroubled cruelty playing on her face.

They’re at a standstill. Possibly because she allows it, from what Jean understands considering her casual body language. She’s at ease, comfortably confronted by them. Unworried about the coming minutes. Jean’s not sure whether to take it seriously, or if it’s an act to trick them into thinking her more dangerous than she is. A cornered animal making itself out to be bigger than it is. Then again, from what Al, Hawkeye and Roy himself had said, they definitely shouldn’t be underestimated. If the trend of the homunculi stays true, then she’s supposed to have some sort of power, something that makes her more dangerous than simply being hard to kill. Impossible to kill? Jean doesn’t know.

“How much did you tell her? What information did you give them?” Roy asks, darkly. 

“Nothing, sir,” Jean gets out, feeling a bit like he’s been smacked in the chest, hit hard enough to have his breath escape him. The certainty of Roy’s assumption ice in his veins. “Nothing of any substantial worth.”

“It’s true,” Solaris sighs, swiping a hand back over her shoulder nonchalantly to brush away her hair. “Annoyingly professional to the very end; a complete waste of time.”

It’s both nice and awful to hear; to know that he was being used, yet able to not give anything away that would hurt their operation. Makes him out to be both a good and a bad soldier. Easy to trick, but not loose lipped. Not too smart, but not too dumb. It doesn’t help though, the idea that he did kind of good, because Jean’s stuck with the fact that he was deceived. So easily made a burden on the team he’s only ever wanted to support. Shame burns in him, has prickles of tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, which only makes him feel worse.

He’s grasping at straws, doing his best to keep a cold persona, but feeling it slipping. He keeps his silence as Roy starts questioning her about Hughes, shifting in his stance to find some sort of inner balance. Like it will have any sort of impact on the way he’s feeling inside.

Watching as Roy proceeds to shoot Solaris is easier than Jean would have expected. Then again, he’s seen far worse. And despite the dates, the reason to Jean’s upset isn’t based on his feelings about her, but stem from the his feelings about himself. The way most of his feelings are. He appears to be almost disgustingly self-centred. So he’s silent, feeling cold, numb, as Roy continues to talk to her.

And she isn’t Solaris, not even close to the persona she admits to have built up. She isn’t human, because fingers dig into her chest, spreading her flesh like it’s malleable clay, red sparks flying off of it, the edges of the hole she’s made ragged. She’s already said that Solaris was an alias, but Jean doesn’t know what else to call her, the name the only thing he has to identify her with, but maybe nightmare isn’t far off. There’s a red core in her chest, a red oval with strange looking veins looking like they’re holding it up. It makes her chest cavity look hollow, like it’s empty but for the drop like centrered stone. A woman built out of solidified savagery.

She names it to be a philosopher’s stone. Like things weren’t bad enough already.

Somehow, it gets worse. She stands like her wounds are nothing, even after Roy’s shot her even more, lips still smiling mockingly. The words “I’m human,” terror to Jean’s ears, because there’s no way she can be considered human. The fact that she has feelings or emotions doesn’t matter. Jean doesn’t give a shit about the scientific or literal definition of the word - the mere idea that she would consider herself to be human when she defies everything that could make her so, it’s unacceptable. Beyond what would be justifiable. Jean bites at his lip to stay quiet, to not shout out an aggravated protest that will change nothing, make no difference. His whole body is taut, ready to move, and he bends slightly to allow a shift in his centre, to keep himself more balanced, steady. All it will take is a word, some sort of signal from Roy, and Jean will do whatever needs doing. Because things are deteriorating, moving down a path that they should be careful to walk down. Solaris is not casually leaning against a wall anymore, even if her face is still relaxed.

“Havoc,” Roy says, tone harsh. “I try to not get involved with other mens’ love lives, but I’m going to have to ask you to dump this girl.”

Not deigning to give a response, Jean bites his teeth harsher together. Frowning at himself and the frantic beat of his heart. “I have the worst luck with women,” he mutters, not to anyone else, but himself.

Roy demanding cover and moving to strike does nothing when Solaris’ fingers stretch out inhumanly to _cut_ through some overhead pipes, drenching the three of them in water. There’s nothing to it but for them to rush out the room, side by side, to avoid taking a hit by one of her elongated fingers. Jean’s unbalanced, weighed down by the dampness of his clothes, and he curses under his breath as he pushes his hair back with the hand not holding onto his shotgun.

“What do we do now?” Jean can’t help but gasp out, pressing his back against the wall left side of the door.

“Don’t look so worried,” Roy tells him hurriedly, looking like he should take his own advice. “She’s underestimating me!”

Jean nods. He’ll trust that Roy knows what he’s doing. Fumbles for his lighter in understanding before Roy’s even finished speaking, the word hydrogen making the plan clear. He takes a deep breath, flicking the lighter open, and waits for Roy to meet his eye before moving his arm back to throw the lighter with its flame into the room.

Even if Jean’s got some experience with Roy and his alchemical abilities, he can’t help but gasp and jerk in shock as the gas in the air catches flame. The explosion furious yet contained, the pressure of heat terror across his skin even with a wall between him and the fire.

“Good god,” he wheezes, wide eyed as he turns to look at Roy, wanting direction. He’s met with a pleased smirk, a look so significantly Roy that he kind of wants to laugh. It’s gone in a moment though, Roy too professional to take out a victory before checking the success of his endeavour.

Entering the room, there’s seemingly nothing that speaks for Solaris’ survival. Scorch marks everywhere, steam still rising, the water on the floor completely gone. “Do you think she burned up, sir?” Jean asks, tacking on the sir to create a semblance of distance between them. The fact that Roy thought him guilty of giving away their secret plans still stinging. No matter how much Jean trusts him, to know that Roy doesn’t trust him right back, the same way. It hurts. More than Jean wants to admit to himself. 

Roy shakes his head and shares the gruesome details of what happens to incinerated bodies. Jean feels like he’s going to be sick, the idea of the slick in the air being from fat hanging in the air, melted off of a body, absolutely nauseating. “Something you learnt during the civil war in Ishval?” he asks, almost surprised at the coolness of his tone.

He’s not given an answer; Roy, instead, moves on ahead, not even giving Jean a look. “Her body should be close,” he says, kicking at some rubble. “We can’t underestimate her regenerative powers. Stay alert.”

Huffing out a tired breath, Jean raises his gun again, eyeing the wreckage surrounding them. Even with the constant exercise at the gym, his body is getting tired now, not used to the physical labour as well as the emotional one. Years have passed since Jean was stuck on proper battle ground, and it shows in the discomfort the prolonged conflicts causes. With his eyes cast down on his gun, Jean doesn’t see the movement to his front right. Doesn’t even realise he’s under attack until he’s already pierced through, legs collapsing underneath him. It takes a second for the fingers to be pulled out, but Jean can’t feel it, busy with falling on his face.

“Shit,” he says, like an afterthought, catching himself with an elbow, barely registering the pain that jolts through his joint. Roy is dives to him, shouting his name, hand gripping his shoulder in a way that should hurt more than it does.

“Get a hold of yourself!” Roy exclaims, like Jean can make any difference to his current state of being at all by thinking positively. Like a bright outlook will do anything at all.

Except that’s not what Roy means, he’s panicking, same as Jean. “I really have the worst luck with women,” he bites out. What else is there to say? Jean’s fucked, he doesn’t need to be a doctor to tell that both of them are unless Roy leaves his side to save himself. The hand holding onto his shoulder lets him go, signifying that something does happen, but Jean’s down proper on the floor now. Unable to focus on anything but the pounding of his heart. It’s strong. For now.

Is this the way he’ll die? He’s both prepared for it, and not. Feels regret burn within as he tries to blink the fuzziness of his eyes away. Regret not because of the life he’ll miss out on living, but for the disgrace of the one he’s had. Fallen from the wound of somebody he’d thought was perfectly innocent and chaste, dated even, under false pretences, unable to have his revenge at the betrayal. Unable to make amends for everything wrong he’s done. The dizziness that hits him despite lying down is strange, he’s grounded and floating all at once.

His mum will be sad, he thinks, as his body grows colder. It must be the loss of blood. His heart pumping life out of him in steady red. Spilling his future onto the already filthy and stained floor.

He feels a little lost, as he closes his eyes, too tired to keep them open. Not able to hear the confrontation taking place over and in front of him.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

 

 

—

 

 

He comes to with a scream, the pain stabbing through him like it’s splitting him apart. Some part of him feels lost already, the smell of burnt flesh heavy in the air. He’s disoriented, doesn’t know where he is or what is happening. Can’t tell whether he’s dreaming or the haze is something else entirely.

“I’m sorry,” he hears someone say, accompanied by a shaking hand caressing his cheek, a stark contrast from the pain. “I had to stop the bleeding, I had to make sure that you’ll be alright,” is said, the voice trembling. Jean thinks that he’d nod if he could, but his whole body is heavy, not responding to his wishes, the tiredness a wall that stops all actions. “You just wait here for me, I’ll be back. I have to help the others!”

 _Don’t go_ , Jean wants to say. _Don’t leave me here alone._ His mouth drops open only to stay silent, the haze of darkness too much. The words escape, and soon it doesn’t matter anyway. He drifts, the pain put away for him to deal with another time. The world empties. It’s silent. He’s lost and gone until he stops registering anything at all. 

 

 

—

 

 

He wakes up. Not instantly, not with a ready thought at hand. But he comes to. Wakes up. And he doesn’t remember everything, not right away, it’s muddled, his head hurting and his body heavy.

He groans.

“Welcome back,” is said, and Jean opens his eyes. Blinks squinty eyed at the sight of the white ceiling over him and glances to his side where the source of the voice is lying on a bed next to his. Roy. Who’s looking at him with careful eyes, a stiffness to the purse of his mouth that Jean doesn’t understand. The memories are a bit clearer now though, comes to him easily, but remain muddy. He doesn’t know what happened after he fell, but can tell from the way Roy is kept in bed and holding himself that Jean wasn’t the only one hurt in the skirmish. It’s both a joy and a pain. Because they both made it out, but also because of the fact that Roy is hurt enough to be hospitalised probably means he did something stupid. He has a little bit of a hero complex as of late, that man.

Jean’s throat is parched, making him cough when he tries to speak, the jerking of his chest forcing a groan out of him. He’s hurt. Logically, he knew this of course, he is currently lying in a hospital bed. But he wasn’t ready for the pain of it. Clutches at the sheets with a trembling hand.

“I’ll get you some water,” Roy says, grimacing as he sits up properly, holding a hand to his abdomen. Definitely wounded. Most likely not supposed to move around to take care of Jean. Hero complex indeed.

“Roy-“ Jean protests, voice weak. His frown is probably doing a better job of getting the intent of the protest across.

“Don’t worry, I’ll visit the toilet at the same time. Make use of the trip,” is what he gets for an answer as Roy stumbles to his feet, gripping the IV pole with pure tenacity. Jean sighs inwardly, knowing there’s no point to protesting further. Roy does what Roy wants. He almost smiles too, because as stupid as the man is, he is ridiculously endearing.

It’s when Roy’s left that Jean pays attention to the rest of the room, the white walls, the bright sky out the window. He’s pretty sure a day must have passed. Possibly two. Licking his dry lips, longing for the promised glass of water, Jean lifts the sheets covering him to look at the bandages tied across his chest and abdomen. Tries to sit up for a better look only to realise that he can’t. Eyes widening as he realises why.

Paralysed. He doesn’t need a diagnosis to know that that’s what this is, because as little as Jean knows about medicine, he knows what it means to not feel your legs.

He stares. Stunned, still holding up the sheets, because he can see his legs, they’re right there, seemingly fine. He touches them. With the hand not clenching onto the sheets.

Nothing.

“Mr. Havoc?” his thoughts are interrupted with, and he looks up to see a nurse looking at him, sadness in her eyes. “Are you alright?” she asks, carefully, as she enters the room, closing the door behind her in a slow motion, as if not to scare him away.

Jean wouldn’t be able run from her if she had, which is what really scares him.

“My legs-” he tries, stops himself from saying anything else.

“Oh,” she says to it, nodding. “We were afraid that that might be the case…” She walks up to him and checks the drip hanging over him, which Jean hasn’t even noticed, despite the needle stuck in his hand. “I will have to get the doctor of course,” she adds, writing something down on her pad, possibly to avoid looking at him. Jean’s pretty sure his face is a mess.

“Don’t.”

“What?”

Glancing at the empty bed beside him, noticing her mirroring him and looking at it too, Jean speaks. “There’s nothing to do about it, right?” Her silence confirms it, he knows it does, words cannot describe the resignation he feels to it. He takes a deep breath. “It’s better if he hears it from me, trust me on this one.”

“I’ll notify the doctor and tell him to talk to you in a few hours,” is all she says, granting him some time. The only reason as to why she’s appeasing him is probably the impossibility of the hospital really doing anything about it, the state he is in. Things tend to be stricter. Personnel more inclined to follow guidelines that have them work with efficiency. Then again, they are military and Roy is a state alchemist. Could be that she’s a little scared from the fact and lets that be the deciding factor.

Regardless of what makes her listen to his wish, he’s grateful. At least he still has that to enjoy and be glad for. Some common human decency. Better than nothing.

She leaves him swiftly, closing the door behind her with more force than previously allowed, clearly assured by the certainty in Jean’s voice. Sighing, Jean closes his eyes and waits.

Roy’s glass of water is welcome, and he smiles wistfully as he takes it from him. Though it’s hard, when Roy pats him on the leg before turning to his own bed, and Jean only know it happens because he sees the hand. He doesn’t feel it. Doesn’t know the touch as more than fact.

“Thank you,” he says, after the first gulp of water, frowning without meaning to. Schools his face into something else when Hawkeye enters the room.

 

 

—

 

 

“I’m going to continue to trust you with my back,” Roy tells Hawkeye, who’s leaning against the wall with a tired look to her face. Jean feels tired too, and surprised. He hasn’t ever considered the possibility of Hawkeye giving up, but from what Roy’s been saying she’d been there. In a situation where she saw no particular hope and decided there was nothing she could do to change that.

“You’re one to talk, Colonel. As the commanding officer you shouldn’t have even been on the battlefield,” Jean states, wanting to break the silence, even if he doesn’t really understand the tension.

“Is that all you have to say to the man who saved your life?” Roy asks, in half-anger and half-relief. It’s funny that Jean knows him well enough to tell that he’s grateful for the change in topic. He wouldn’t have been able to distinguish the feeling before they started sleeping together. He sort of wonders if Hawkeye hears it too, and if she too is a little amused by it.

“I’m thankful for it, you can trust me on that,” Jean replies, because he’s been informed of the role Roy had in stopping the bleeding, even if he doesn’t remember it. “Don’t know how much I appreciate the scarring… no girl is ever going to look at me the same!”

No girl will ever have a reason to look at Jean the same. No feeling in anything below the waist means that more than Jean’s ability to walk has been lost. He doesn’t want to talk about it though, not yet. It feels better to taunt himself in a way, rubbing it in his own face before telling any of the others. Better that than thinking about how he’s going to lose everything that ties him to the team, to Roy.

Jean wants to lock away the feelings deep within him and throw away the keys. There’s nothing to do about it, and so there’s no need to mourn.

He’s pleased to see Alphonse and Fuery entering, is happy with the distraction. That they start talking about the things that they’ve found out is inevitable. Sharing information and theories. Jean decides that he’s of more use silent than speaking, and so listens to what the rest of them are saying, rather than adding anything to the conversation himself. It’s better for his head to just drift than to actively take part. It’s not like he needs to know any of this anyway. He’ll be leaving them with this,  he’s sure, with no possible way of helping. He won’t be able to continue working with them after all. And he’s never been the person to think up plans; that’s not where his talents are located.

Were, rather. Shit.

“This is the perfect opportunity for them to finish us off,” Roy says, after a while, meaning wounded at the hospital.

Jean snorts to himself, thinking that there’s not much to finish off in his case anyway. What danger is he to the enemy, crippled beyond repair? Instead of saying anything though, he takes in the room, looking at all the faces surrounding him. Enjoys it for the time being. Who knows if he’ll ever be this close to being one with the team again? Probability says that he won’t be. That part of his life is over now.

Alphonse and Fuery leave when there’s not much more to be said. The conclusions and facts they’ve arrived at daunting.

“I’m going to ask you all to keep digging into this matter,” Roy says to the two of them. Hawkeye and Jean who are still in the room with him. He nods to himself. Seemingly pleased with finally having something more substantial to stand on. He smiles, looking over at the them. “Can I count on you?” he asks, with the tone of somebody who’s already taking it for granted. Knows that they’ve got his back no matter what. Hawkeye answers in the affirmative, even goes as far as saying she hopes for more trustworthy people to show up and lend them their strength. Like they’ve got a clear cut path ahead of them; Roy’s team united in the face of the enemy. Ready to stand together and fight, the lot of them.

Except. They don’t know what Jean knows. Don’t have all the facts. Don’t know what will ruin the very idea of Jean standing with them. He can’t postpone it any longer. Taking a small breath, steeling himself against the emotions raging on inside, Jean opens his mouth.

“About that…” he says, smiling, because what else can he fucking do? There’s nothing, no solution to the problem. He’s done. “Count me out, Colonel.”

The confusion on Roy’s face is obvious, Hawkeye’s mouth opening in surprise just as unmistakably clear. They don’t understand. Most likely feel like he’s taken hold of the rug from under their feet and pulled it away. Unsteady.

Understandable, considering the role that Jean has had in the team. He’s pretty sure he’d be similarly confused if Hawkeye spoke of her disinterest or inability to continue supporting Roy.

“I can’t feel either of my legs,” he explains, eyes down. Not willing to look at disappointed faces. Not wanting to be the cause of their upset, or at least not to witness it. “I’m sorry. I guess I have to retire.”

 _Guess_. Like he doesn’t know. Like it’s not _obvious_. Jean feels both like crying and throwing up, but refuses to do either. He still doesn’t look up though. Wants them to say something, but also doesn’t want to hear it.

“I’ll leave the two of you alone for a moment,” is all that Hawkeye says to it, before removing herself from the situation.

Neither of them speak for a moment. Which is tough, but it allows Jean to calm himself down again. To breathe a little easier despite the emotional strain.

Roy is staring at him. If Jean didn’t know better he’d say that there are tears in his eyes.

Still without uttering a word, Roy stands from his bed, and for half a second Jean thinks that he’s going to leave too. Until it’s obvious that he won’t, when Roy’s moving towards him instead of away, face unmoving.

He sits down beside Jean, the whole of his body turned towards him despite how much it must pain him to be twisted such a way with his burns.

“I-“ He says, looking at Jean. Apparently decides that words aren’t the way to go after all. He raises both of his hands instead, puts them on each side of Jean’s face. He’s trembling.

“Roy-“ Jean starts, but is interrupted by lips on his.

It’s disgusting. Neither of them having been able to brush their teeth or do anything about the stale breath of a long rest. They part soon enough. Roy kisses his cheek instead, moving along it to kiss at his jaw. Kisses the side of his neck, then stays there, bent over, only breathing into the skin of Jean’s shoulder.

Carefully, Jean lifts his arms to embrace him, one hand finding its way onto Roy’s head, patting him gently. “It’s okay,” he whispers into dark hair. “I’m alive because you saved my life, remember. That’s enough.”

“We will fix this,” Roy says when he leans back. His voice a little wobbly.

“That’s not your job,” Jean states, then leans forward to kiss Roy once more, maybe for the last time. He’s still ridiculously pretty, even red-eyed and sad looking.

 

 

—

 

 

“Luckily, nothing vital was hit-“

“You mean other than my spine,” Jean corrects, because his spine is very much vital to the life he’s been leading.

The doctor doesn’t seem to be too embarrassed about being corrected. Might even think that Jean’s the one in the wrong, as he purses his mouth, adjusting the glasses balanced on the tip of his nose. Jean doesn’t like him. 

“Yes. Except for you spine, I’m sorry. What I meant to say is that your internal organs are fine. Somehow, the way you were pierced avoided them. A miracle, believe it or not. The only thing that put your life in jeopardy was the blood loss, and the cauterisation of your wound took care of that. You’re not fine, of course. But other than your legs, you will make a complete recovery.”

The nerves in his spine are completely cut off. There’s no signal going between limb and brain. Meaning that there’s no possibility for Jean to get automail. It’s very much what he expected, yet it’s hard to hear that he’s right. That this is what it’s come to.

It doesn’t sound much like recovery to him.

 

 

—

 

 

He doesn’t know where Roy is when Breda comes into the room. The first time they meet since the day they smuggled Ross out of the city. He’s grateful for Roy not being there for this. Facing your best friend for the first time since finding out that hanging out won’t be an option anymore is the kind of thing you want to do alone. Especially when said friend also knows about the entanglement taking place between Roy and him.

They focus their conversation more on Ross to start with however, Jean more interested in the things that really matter, than the things that don’t. The lack of his future participation in everything is already being worked around after all, the only one really still stuck trying to figure things out is Jean. And it’s a thing he will have to handle himself.

At least the innocence of Ross and to hear about her successful survival is nice. Great even. Some good news were a long time coming.

“Do you think she will be fine?” he asks, finding himself actually wanting to know. They might not be close in any personal kind of way, but Jean feels a connection. Maybe because they’re both forced out of action, in different but not entirely dissimilar ways. It’s all due to the homunculi. In a way he’s happy that he’s the one landing in this position and not Ross. He likes her too much to wish any such thing upon her.

“Define fine,” Breda says, scratching at his stubble. “I think she’ll figure it out. If nothing else, she’ll learn a new language and get some exercise for the brain.”

Humming, Jean stretches his fingers, yearning for one more cigarette. One allowed per day isn’t nearly enough for someone as nicotine addicted as him. It’d be nice to keep his fingers more busy too. “Maybe something I can take up too, I’m afraid I won’t be spending as much time in the gym anymore, even if my arms will need some fine tuning.”

Breda doesn’t say anything for a little while, considering Jean with a calm stare. “What’s the Colonel said about things?” he asks, trying for subtle. Jean still understands what he’s really asking.

“What things?” he challenges, refusing to say anything on the matter. Hopes that Roy won’t be bursting into the room anytime soon. Judging by Breda’s face he’s not interested in letting the matter lay at rest.

“Jean, no dumb blonds jokes please, I’m too good a friend to play along.”

It’s true. Breda is the best of friends. The kind anyone would be interested in having. Jean’s never felt he truly deserved someone like him on his side, especially not considering the things that he knows about Jean that not all people would accept without comments. Jean will miss him. Even if he won’t miss Breda’s tendency to want to make him talk about whatever ails him.

“I’m not playing though, _things_ are inexistent. I don’t know what there is to not understand here Breda - I’m paralysed,” he sighs, hitting his right leg with a clenched fist to emphasise what he’s saying. The fact that he can’t feel the punch might mean it’s a bit harder than he’d usually go for. What does it matter, a bruise or two extra won’t make much of a difference. “Can’t very well fuck anyone when my dick doesn’t work.”

Grimacing, Breda shakes his head. “Are you saying that that’s all there is to it?”

“That’s all there was to it, that part of my life is over now,” Jean says, shifting to look at the ceiling instead of his friend. “I’ll be going home to my parents’ anyway, help out in the general store to my best ability. It’ll be something to do, keep my mind off of things.”

It’s an idea at least, of how to spend the rest of his days. Fill them with some kind of purpose instead of wasting away staring at a wall. He’ll have to rely on his family taking care of him. Doing things for him he’d never thought he’d need to ask. A country bumpkin returned to his origins, being more of a burden than he ever was before. The prodigal son breaking his mother’s heart with his return home.

“Retired life doesn’t suit you,” Breda says, frowning.

Jean can’t help but agree, a sad shrug his only way of response. It is what it is.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pain. Pain. Pain.
> 
> Still, hope you enjoyed and that this chapter was up to par. I struggled a bit with it tbh.

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully I will manage to continue this story. I like it, so there's that. Regardless, I will have you know that it's mostly planned, just not written down.
> 
> I will not promise to keep a posting schedule or anything like that, I have a life and it likes to mess with me quite a lot. This still feels, to me, like it could be read and enjoyed, so I hope that you did.


End file.
